


These Fragments I Have Shored Against My Ruins

by The_Real_Fenris



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Betrayal, Dalish Elves, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Fenris Has Issues, Jealousy, Love, M/M, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Sexual Content, Skyhold, The Fade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-03 05:07:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5277818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Real_Fenris/pseuds/The_Real_Fenris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Betrayed by Hawke, Fenris flees - alone, injured and dying - through the woods, where he is rescued by the Lavellan clan. Will Fenris ever be able to forgive the man he loves? Or is his meeting the handsome Dalish hunter a second chance?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dalish, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is either a FenHawke disguised as a Fenris/Inquisitor, or a Fenris/Inquisitor disguised as a FenHawke.
> 
> At any rate, this is a story about Fenris. A "What if...?" followed by a "What if...?" And since (as of writing) no one has done a Fenris/M!Inquisitor story before, I figured... why not.
> 
> The title is from TS Eliot's epic poem, _The Wasteland._

Seething with rage and compelled by animal instinct, Fenris staggered, lost, injured, and alone through the forest.

After weeks in the dark, the bright light of day seared his eyes. In the shadows he hallucinated malevolent shapes, and he growled at nonexistent beasts in the brambles. His heart ached, his wounds burned, and he could feel the corruption in his blood, sapping his strength as it tried to kill him.

His vision blurred, and he stumbled half-blind, scraping the skin of his hands against the rough bark of the trees. Inside his head, his thoughts continued to tumble. He couldn’t believe that Hawke had tried to kill him. No, it had always seemed impossible that Hawke could betray him, especially not after all their years together. _What the fuck happened?_ he thought. _And why do I feel sick? Am I dying?_

As he staggered aimlessly, he came upon two men in a small clearing.

Squinting, he could make them out a little clearer. Not men. _Elves._ And, by the markings on their faces, he recognized them as Dalish.

At his appearance, the Dalish startled. Then the one on the right reached for a knife, while the other raised his bow.

Fenris drew his sword and, with a snarl, closed in to attack.

The Blade of Mercy weighed heavily in his hands. He managed to swing once, wildly, failing to strike either target, before the world began spinning rapidly out of control. The sky danced, stabbing his eyes. The sword slipped from his grasp as he crumpled to the ground.

His vision dimmed, but he clearly heard the soft crunch of the dead leaves under their bare feet as they approached. All attempts to rise resulted in nothing more than the twitching of his limbs and fingers. His body had failed him, leaving him as vulnerable as one of the newborn kittens in the litter he’d once played with at Anders’ clinic.

He heard a voice, dark and silky, with that accent particular to the Dalish. “What is he?”

The other voice, lyrical and lilting, held a hint of mirth. “Judging by the ears, I’d say he’s an elf.”

“But those markings...” Dark said, “...I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“I don’t know what they are,” said Lilting, “but they are kind of... pretty.”

Dark’s tone sharpened. “Pretty? He tried to attack us. The wisest thing to do would be to kill him.”

One of the shadowy shapes standing above him crouched down, ignoring his companion’s warnings. Fenris couldn’t make out his features, but he could feel the stranger’s hands prodding his visible wounds.

“He’s badly injured,” Lilting said once he’d finished his examination. “I don’t think he actually meant us any harm.”

“Striker! Are you mad?”

The one called Striker leaned forward to take the sword from Fenris’s still-twitching fingers. Fenris did not have the strength to fight him for it.

“Alriel, it’s not our place to decide his fate. We’ll take him back to camp for the Keeper to decide.”

“Take him back to camp?” Alriel repeated. “But we don’t even know how dangerous he is.”

“Look at him. Right now he isn’t a threat to anyone,” Striker said, with a note of finality. “Here – you carry his sword.”

The voices fell silent. Distant birdsong swelled in the cool Autumn air.

“Fine,” Alriel finally grumbled, “as long as the Keeper is made aware that this was your decision.”

“I will accept that responsibility.”

Leaves crackled near Fenris’ head, and then he felt an arm pressing under his back as another hooked beneath his knees. He could only groan in protest as he felt himself be lifted before the world spun again, this time sending him down into a welcoming, safe darkness.

***

Fenris dreamed of steel and darkspawn, of pain and blood. For a long time he drifted in a haze of confusion, fever-ridden, unable to differentiate between dream and reality. He knew neither who he was nor where he was. As consciousness finally returned, he blinked away the crust in his eyes to find an unfamiliar elf, his face marked with tattoos, leaning over him with hands extended in the air, weaving a familiar pattern of blue mist.

He’d seen Anders in action often enough to recognize the spell being cast.

He snarled as he lashed out. “Mage! Don’t you use your filthy magic on me!”

The Dalish mage jerked back, out of reach of Fenris’ fist, the spell broken. His face screwed up in consternation, and his gaze flicked over to the woman standing behind him at the entrance of the tent.

Pure white hair was tied back from a deeply-lined face, and she wore what Fenris recognized as the robes of a Keeper. Tilting her head, she regarded Fenris calmly and curiously for a moment. When she spoke, it was in the quiet, patient tone that a parent would use with a difficult child. “My First, Taelassan, was only trying to heal you. You came to us badly injured and ill. And by the nature of your illness, it seems that you were infected by the Blight,” she explained. “How you are even still alive is a mystery.”

 _The Blight?_ No, that wasn’t possible. He didn’t believe it. Even so, a painful memory flashed through his fog-addled head: kind and sweet Bethany in the Deep Roads, infected with the Blight, dying a horrible, agonizing death.

“No,” he growled. “No magic.”

The Keeper regarded him for another moment. “As you wish, child.”

Suddenly, the lyrium under his skin began to glow of its own volition. Fire-hot pain coursed through him. He uttered one incomprehensible cry as the pain overwhelmed him, and then the darkness claimed him once again.

***

When he woke again, it was dark. He had no way of knowing how much time had passed, whether it was hours or days. As his eyes adjusted, he assessed the situation.

He felt weak, hardly able to move. Even lifting a hand was a trial, and he suspected that rising to his feet would be impossible. Yet, the fog in his head and the fever had passed, so he was more lucid than he’d been in a long time. Turning his head, he realized that he was in a large tent, a mage stone in one corner casting a soft light, and that sitting near him, partially obscured by shadow, was a dark-haired elf. Watching him.

He was also aware of the dryness in his throat. When was the last time that a drink of any sort had passed his lips? “Water,” he croaked.

Without a word, the stranger stood and slipped out of the tent. He returned momentarily, bearing a cup in one hand, and knelt down in front of Fenris. The light from the glowstone splashed over him, illuminating his features. He had a delicate face with high cheekbones, fox-like light brown eyes flecked with green and gold – _no, hazel_ – a rounded nose, and full, well-formed lips. He had an unruly shock of chestnut colored hair, cropped close on one side. An elaborate _vallaslin_ traced up both sides of his face, across his forehead, with a dark line that began on his bottom lip and continued, expanding, to his throat, and even encircling his eyes and shadowing his lids.

He was quite possibly the most beautiful elf Fenris had ever seen.

With one hand, he lifted Fenris’s head, while the other brought the cup to his lips.

Cold, refreshing spring water filled his mouth. Fenris sputtered, but managed to swallow some of it. After a few swallows, he twisted his head. “Enough.”

The elf settled Fenris’ head back on the pillow, set the cup on the ground beside him, and returned to his previous seat near the tent flap, though this time he leaned forward, into the light.

Questions swirled and danced through his mind. He settled on the most pressing. “Where am I...?” he said. “And who are you?”

The Dalish cocked his head, his expression was neutral. “You’re in a Dalish camp, among the Lavellan clan. We found you half-dead in the woods outside of Wycombe,” he said steadily. “And my name is Mahanon. Though most people just call me Striker.”

Fenris studied him carefully, passing judgment. “You’re no mage.”

Striker straightened his back, and he tilted his chin in a manner that could only be described as proud. “I am one of the clan’s hunters.”

“Then where is your bow?”

Striker regarded him silently for a moment, then expertly flicked two daggers out of his loose sleeves down into the palms of his hands. “Not all of us hunt with a bow,” he said. To emphasize his point, he spun the knives in his hands, the blades flashing menacingly in the light, before flicking them back up his sleeves.

It had been impressive, but Fenris merely grunted. “And why are you here?”

Surprise flitted across Striker’s face. “You don’t remember?”

Fenris shook his head. Even that gesture took effort.

“Ah. Well... you attacked our First. So the Keeper decided that someone else should look after you.” As he smiled wryly, fine lines appeared around his eyes. “Apparently, when I offered to take responsibility for you, the Keeper was all too happy to assign _me_ the task of watching over you until you’re well enough to leave.”

Fenris thought. In his mind, there was only the smoke of a memory. _Striker... Striker... that voice, light and lyrical..._ He grasped at the smoke, and then he remembered. “You... you’re the one who saved me.”

The wry smile appeared again. “Yes. And I do hope that you’re not planning on making me regret it.”

Another detail about their encounter in the woods came back to him. He groped weakly at the empty space by his side. “My sword...”

“Trust me, it’s very safe. It will be returned to you when you’re ready to move on.”

Thoughts tumbled around his head. This elf had saved him. But did he even want to be saved? He considered that. In truth, he’d never wanted to die, not even when he’d suffered from the torments inflicted upon him by Danarius or that bitch Hadriana, nor when Hawke had tried to kill him.

Fenris sighed. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to seem... ungrateful.”

A hint of surprise appeared in Striker’s eyes. His tone softened, more conciliatory. “I imagine that you’ve been through quite an ordeal.” Fenris expected him to press for details, however, he only smiled, warmly this time, and asked, “Are you hungry?”

Eating seemed like too much effort. “No.”

“Then you should probably rest.”

Fenris closed his eyes. He didn’t expect that he’d be able to rest, but, within moments, he was asleep again.

***

Dark dreams persecuted him in his sleep.

When he woke again, he could tell by the quality of the light filtering in through the tent flap that it was morning. A glance about his surroundings revealed that nothing had changed, except that the Dalish hunter lay on the other bedroll, his breathing steady and his eyes closed.

With some effort, Fenris managed to pull himself up into a sitting position.

As he did so, Striker instantly stirred, stretching his arms as he sat up. When he spoke, his lyrical voice was slurred by sleep. “Feeling better?”

Fenris considered how he felt. He still felt really weak. He hated that feeling. Still, he’d managed to sit up, which meant that his health was improving. “Somewhat.”

Striker studied him for a moment with hazy eyes. “Do you think you’re ready to eat?”

There was a soft, but insistent pang of hunger in the pit of his stomach. He nodded.

Striker rose to his feet, stretching again, his hands brushing against the roof of the tent. Moving, he stopped at the tent’s entrance, turning to regard his charge. ‘Stay here...” he paused, cocking his head. “What should I call you?”

He doubted that he had the energy to stand, much less escape, even if he wanted to. Even if he’d had some place to go. For now, he would have to rely on the Dalish. “My name is Fenris.”

The name Danarius had given him – an elven name meaning ‘Little Wolf’ – always managed to evoke a reaction from other elves when they first learned of it. But this was the first time it drew a smile of amusement. “I’ll be back in a moment, Fenris.”

Fenris nodded again, and then Striker slipped out of the tent.

As he waited, Fenris did his best to not think about the events that had brought him here. In fact, he tried not to think at all. Thinking was _dangerous._ Fortunately, it was not long before Striker returned, balancing a plate laden with bread, fruit and meat in one hand, and a cup of delightfully hot tea in the other.

Fenris ate. The meat didn’t appeal to his sensitive stomach, but he did manage to eat some of the bread and fruit. Reaching for the tea, he sighed with contentment after the first sip.

All the while, Striker had been watching him with casual interest. “Better?”

“Yes,” Fenris rumbled. “Thank you.”

Striker’s expression changed, softening again. For a moment he looked at Fenris, silent. Then his expression grew serious. “You were seriously wounded when I found you,” he said. “Talessan said he believed that you’d lost a lot of blood.”

He had only a vague memory of the clan’s First hovering over him, weaving some sort of spell. He didn’t like it, but he was still curious. “What else did he say?”

Striker’s gaze slid briefly down Fenris’ chin and throat before traveling up again. “He thinks your markings somehow allowed you to fight off the Blight.”

Silent, sipping his tea, Fenris became lost in thought. What Striker said should be impossible. No one infected with the Blight could live. It was almost always a death sentence; the only cure being to become a Grey Warden. And yet, he could no longer feel its slimy existence within his blood.

Returning his attention to Striker, he fully expected the hunter to ask him about his scars. It clearly hadn’t escaped Striker’s notice that the markings on both their throats – like the leaves of an ash – were eerily similar. Instead, Striker remarked, “We Dalish have many natural remedies. They might help to speed your recovery.”

“I am aware of that.”

Striker’s expression and voice became soft and full of unexpected warmth. “Then, if it’s all right with you... I will ask the herbalist to come treat you.”

Unaccustomed to kindness – especially from beautiful strangers – Fenris was taken aback. For a moment, all he could do was blink. Then, casting his eyes down into his teacup, he stuttered, “Yes... that would be... fine.”


	2. The Dalish, Part II

As Striker had promised, the herbalist came to see him. She was younger than he had expected, and somewhat curt, but despite her lack of a bedside manner, Fenris found that he trusted her judgment. And despite the fact that most of her herbs tasted like poison, he _did_ feel better after taking them.

Still, he passed a few more days recovering in bed before making his request to leave the tent for some air. The air in the tent was stifling, reeking of unwashed flesh and sickness, he was restless, and he knew that he’d never regain his strength just by convalescing in bed.

Once outside the tent, he stood still, blinking against the bright light. Then, once he’d become used to it, with Striker at his side, he began to walk around the camp.

His legs were still shaky, so their progress was slow. However, it gave him the opportunity to study his surroundings carefully. Everything seemed so brilliantly sharp: the golden hides of the halla that grazed at the edges of camp, the red and gold painted trim of the aravels, the rich, glossy darkness of the evergreens. The sky, free of clouds, was so brilliantly blue that it hurt his eyes to look at it. Sounds of daily life filled his ears: women chattering, smiths hammering, and birds chirping. And, as they walked, he became aware of how the other Dalish would stop in their tasks to stare at them openly.

He was used to stares. And, after his long seclusion in the tent, this was the first time that most of the clan had lain eyes upon their guest, so Fenris did not begrudge them their curiosity.

By his side, Striker matched his slow pace, silent. In the silence, Fenris began thinking.

He’d been with the Lavellan clan for at least a week, though he couldn’t be certain, as he’d spent his initial time here lost in a haze. In the past few days, however, he’d spent many hours in conversation with Striker. Strangely, although Striker had answered, quite candidly, all of his questions about the area, about the clan and their travels, and about himself and his role as one of the clan’s prized hunters, he had never once asked Fenris about his markings, or how he had been wounded and infected with the Blight.

Feeling rankled for no discernible reason, Fenris finally spoke, his tone sharp. “Why are you so kind to me?”

Striker stopped short, giving him a sidelong glance, one eyebrow curiously cocked.

“You are Dalish,” Fenris said. “I am an outsider. You know nothing about me. You have no idea what I’ve done. And yet you bring me back to your clan and spend days nursing me back to health, and ask no questions.”

Striker turned to him, crossing his arms, clearly debating. Finally he said, “It costs nothing to be kind.”

Whatever the reason, Fenris didn’t believe it was just the altruistic nature of the hunter’s heart. _Everyone wants something._ The look he gave Striker was skeptical.

Striker’s expression became grim. “I admit that if you had been a _shem_ , then, I probably wouldn’t have argued with Alriel against killing you,” he added. “Or we would have just left you to die in the woods.”

Irritated, Fenris growled at him.“Then you think that just because we’re both elves, we have something in common?”

Striker’s mouth tightened as he stared hard at Fenris. Then he sighed. “I would find it hard to believe if you were to claim that you’d never suffered at the hands of humans.”

So close were the memories of all the dirty abuses he’d been subjected to by the magisters. So focused on hating them, he’d never considered the fact that they were also human. Fenris had never judged a man based on his race, only if he could use magic. And then he’d met Hawke, a human who had been willing to help him...

...only to betray him in the end.

He felt the surge of blood as his heart quickened, and he quickly pushed that thought away. “Still,” he insisted. “You know nothing about my past.”

“I figured you didn’t want to talk about it,” Striker said softly. “If you wanted to, you would.”

Fenris felt the sun beating down on him, the sick sensation of his heart battering like a trapped moth, and that, combined with the physical exertion, caused his head to spin. His legs grew suddenly weak, and he staggered.

Striker moved forward, lightning quick, catching Fenris in his arms. “Are you all right?”

Fenris heard the concern in his voice, and felt the comfort of Striker’s arms supporting him, and this mix of concern and comfort was almost too much for him to bear. Except that he was too weak to pull away. “Just... light-headed.”

Striker adjusted his grip, one hand on Fenris’ shoulder, the other resting on his hip. “Come, now,” he said. “I’ll take you back to the tent so you can lie down.”

***

As the days passed, Fenris continued to heal. His appetite returned with a vengeance. After weeks of eating hardtack and jerky in the Deep Roads, eating well with gusto was a true pleasure. He also continued to take short walks around the camp to regain his strength. The other Dalish seemed to have accepted his presence, and some of them even greeted him when they saw him. Accompanying him at all times was Striker. Keeper’s orders.

Awake more often than not, and with little else to do, he spent much of his time conversing with Striker. Eventually, he began to tell Striker about his past. He talked about how he had escaped slavery, and of the excruciatingly painful process that had branded the lyrium marks into his skin. He talked about the years he’d spent on the run from the slavers who’d pursued him, and how he’d finally enacted his revenge on his former masters.

Some subjects Fenris avoided. He didn’t talk about the six years he’d spent in Kirkwall, nor his role in the epic battle between the Templars and the mages, because then he would have to speak about Hawke. Hawke: the only man he had ever loved, and the man whom he had trusted so implicitly that Fenris had allowed his lover to convince him to fight on the side of the mages.

As he shared these stories, he was grateful for how Striker listened carefully, without expressing sympathy nor passing judgment.

He was also grateful when, one afternoon, Striker offered to take him down to the river so he could wash up. He even supplied clean clothes, a towel and soap.

A short trail through the woods brought them to the river. It was neither wide nor deep, its current sluggish, and – testing its temperature with his hand – quite cold. But Fenris didn’t care. He was dirty, and stank, his hair greasy, and his skin and scalp itched. Wasting no time, he stripped off his shirt, casually tossing it to the ground.

Glancing up, he caught Striker staring at him. Fenris waited as bright hazel eyes trailed down his arms, across his stomach, up his chest and neck. When their eyes met, Striker blinked once, then quickly averted his gaze.

Fenris reached up to push his hair, which had grown too long lately, back from his eyes. “Ask, if you wish.”

Striker’s eyes flicked back up, and he regarded Fenris curiously. “Do your markings cover your entire body?”

“Yes.”

“Do they... hurt?”

“Only if someone touches them... carelessly.”

“There’s no way to remove them?”

“Not to my knowledge, no.”

Striker paused, looking thoughtful. “Then the man who did this to you got what he deserved.”

_Death. By my hand._ “Yes,” Fenris said. “Any other questions?”

The hunter looked like he was about to say something, but then changed his mind. Instead, he asked, “Would you be willing to speak to the Keeper?”

“Of course.”

“Good.”

The conversation over, Fenris turned to the task of unlacing his pants. However, his hands stilled when he happened to glance up and notice that Striker was watching him intently, with a strange look on his face.

Fenris recognized that look.

Striker hastily set down the clothes and towel he’d been carrying. “Here.” He tossed the soap at Fenris, who snatched it out of the air. “Meet me back at camp when you’re done,” Striker said over his shoulder, already scurrying off towards the trail.

***

Cold, his hair wet, but clean and in fresh clothes, Fenris followed the trail back to camp. He wasn’t particularly surprised to find Striker and the Keeper waiting for him in front of his tent.

She greeted him with a polite smile. “Mahanon tells me that you have made a full recovery.”

“I have.”

“Are you certain that you are fit enough to travel?”

“I am.”

“In that case, we will return your possessions to you, and you may set out in the morning.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Fenris said. “You’ve been very kind.”

“You’re welcome, child,” replied the Keeper. She turned to Striker. “You, too, shall set out first thing in the morning.”

Striker respectfully bowed his head. “Of course, Keeper.”

***

Night fell.

Fenris sat alone in his tent. Before him, spread across the bedroll, were his belongings. _So very little..._ And of those possessions, the only real thing of value was the Blade of Mercy that Hawke had given him. Hawke, who had tried to kill him in the Deep Roads...

Fenris shoved that thought down. He was already sick of re-living that moment in his head, unable to make sense of it. To distract himself, he picked a random object from the pile: a deck of cards that had once belonged to Varric. Elven-themed, all the face cards had pointed ears.

Thinking of Varric brought a small smile to his lips.

The tent flap opened and Striker stepped in. “I just wanted to see if you needed anything... and I brought you this.”

Fenris stared at the bottle of wine in Striker’s hand. “The Dalish make wine?”

Striker’s mouth quirked up with amusement. “This is a particularly good vintage.”

“Then I thank you,” Fenris said as he accepted the bottle.

Striker retreated back to the entrance. “Well, then, if you don’t need anything...”

Fenris realized that Striker had come to say his farewells, and was about to leave. Except that the idea displeased him. In truth, he did not want to be alone with his thoughts. “Striker? Do the Dalish play Wicked Grace?”

“I haven’t heard of it, no.”

“If you have no pressing matters, I could teach you while we share the wine.”

Striker hesitated at the tent flap, considering this proposal. Then he moved to sit down in front of Fenris.

Fenris cleared the space between them by shoving his other belongings into his pack, which he then set aside. While he dealt the cards, Striker flicked a knife out of his right sleeve and used it to pry the cork free from the bottle Fenris explained the rules of the game, then they started to play. After a few rounds, Striker started to get the hang of it. After a few more rounds, he managed to win.

As they played, they took turns drinking straight from the bottle. Striker had won twice more by the time they had drained the bottle dry. Fenris won the next game. Then Striker leaned back, remarking, “It’s getting late.”

Fenris slowly gathered up the cards. “The Keeper said you’re also leaving tomorrow?”

“Yes. I’m...”

Fenris filled in the unfinished sentence. “Going on a secret mission?”

There was a telling pause. Fenris wondered if Striker would refuse to divulge his destination, or if the wine had sufficiently loosened his tongue. “Not exactly,” he said, then leaned closer, speaking softly. “I’m going to the Frostback Mountains. We’ve heard that Chantry leaders are meeting with the mages in order to negotiate peace between the mages and the Templars at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

A memory: passing through fire at Hawke’s side in that very temple. He quickly dismissed it. “Yes, I’ve heard those rumors as well.”

“The Keeper wants me to go and... listen. To see how this might affect the Dalish.”

He meant _spy._ “I see.”

Striker cocked his head, eyeing Fenris intensely. “And you? Where will you go?”

Fenris fingered the deck of cards in his hands, thinking of Varric. “I have a friend I need to find. The last I heard, he was in Starkhaven Though I don’t know why he’d go there, as he always thought it pretentious.”

“So you’ll be staying in the Free Marches.”

He had no other, better plan. “For now.”

Striker glanced briefly at the tent’s entrance. “Well, then... it is late.”

“Wait,” Fenris said, louder and more aggressively than he’d intended. He lowered his voice. “I never thanked you for saving my life. You have been very kind to me. And, I don’t know how, but if there is any way to repay you, I shall.”

“Repay me...?” As he trailed off, his eyes dropped from Fenris’ eyes to linger for a moment on his lips, before snapping up again. “No, I... there’s no need. And I _really_ should go.”

That look again – the same look that Striker had given him earlier at the river. Fenris had been subjected to it often enough by men and women alike, while and after he was a slave. The same look he used to catch from Isabela and Hawke before...

_Hawke. Damn Hawke._ More than anything, Fenris wanted to wash himself clean of the last man who had touched him. The only man he’d ever given himself to willingly. The impulse was maddening, clawing at his very soul. Sex was something Fenris had always taken pains to avoid. But he was free now to choose it if he wished, and this wouldn’t be the first time that Fenris had given into that temptation.

And Striker, who was as beautiful as he was kind, wanted him. And – even better – they would go their separate ways in the morning, and probably never see each other again, so there would be no messy complications.

As Striker began to rise, Fenris leaned forward, seizing two fistfuls of the front of Striker’s shirt. Striker stared at him, eyes wide with surprise.

“Don’t go,” Fenris demanded, his voice husky. Then, without waiting for a response, he pulled the hunter to him, Fenris’ mouth seeking his.

Striker became still as Fenris kissed him, except for his hands which he lifted to cover Fenris’ own, as though to pry them off. Three heartbeats later, Striker’s hands relaxed their grip, one hand now sliding up to cup the back of Fenris’ neck as if trying to keep him there, as he enthusiastically returned the kiss.

The cards scattered beneath them as Fenris pulled Striker down over him on the bed.

 


	3. The Inquisition, Part I

Starkhaven was a riot of color, from its high-flying banners flapping in the wind, to its colossal painted statues and ubiquitous stained glass. Its sprawling marketplace possessed a large array of shops, and its merchants boasted that anything and everything could be found in Starkhaven. However, Fenris didn’t find the one thing he was looking for: Varric.

Fenris tarried in the city, keeping his ear to the ground, and offering to pay for information. Yet his efforts proved fruitless. Despite his persistence, he was unable to unearth any news of Varric nor the Champion of Kirkwall.

He’d briefly entertained the idea of seeking an audience with Sebastian Vael. Fenris hadn’t seen the man since they’d all fled from Kirkwall. Fenris had gotten along well enough with the Chantry brother, but – in the end – he decided not to seek him out. There were too many questions he didn’t want to answer. Questions about _Hawke._

As he sat, discouraged, nursing a flagon of ale late one afternoon in a dirty little tavern in the city’s south side, he considered his options. He could stay in Starkhaven and look for work, or he could move on to the next city and seek both work and information there. He didn’t know where, but he was relatively certain that Varric was still in the Free Marches.

As he considered his options, he chanced to overhear a snippet of conversation between three humans seated at a table near the bar.

A voice, dark as doom, sliced through the low din. “Have you heard? Even the Chantry sisters are saying it now: the Temple of Sacred Ashes has been destroyed. No survivors. Everyone who attended the Conclave is dead.”

_The Temple of Sacred Ashes..._ It took Fenris a moment to remember the last time he’d heard that mentioned. Then, like a rabid dog, without warning the memory struck. 

_Mahanon Lavellan’s destination._

Suddenly everything became still. It was if the world had stopped, leaving Fenris breathless and frozen at the epicenter. Then Fenris’ brain started to tick again, each tick a word with the weight of the bomb that once blew up Kirkwall’s Chantry.

Destroyed. _Tick._ No survivors. _Tick._ Dead. _Tick._

Then, just as suddenly, the world returned to normalcy.

Fenris flagged down the bartender. “A bottle of whiskey.”

A moment later, Fenris filled the glass set before him. He downed the first one quickly, ignoring the burning in his chest as the whiskey coursed into him. The second one he drank more slowly. By the third, he was pleasantly numb.

Still, the drinks did nothing to dispel the memories of his last night at the Dalish camp. He remembered Striker’s voice humming around his ear, his touch as he danced around Fenris’ scars, the taste of his smooth skin, the heat of his body pressed against him, and the feel of the hunter inside, filling all of his empty spaces. And Fenris would never be able to repay him.

The loss hurt more than it should have. As if some of the stars in the sky over Thedas had been blotted out. Like darkspawn claws crushing his heart.

***

On the way back to the room he was renting at the Black Hart tavern, Fenris came upon a commotion in the main square.

After lingering, disheartened and lost in Starkhaven, he’d arrived in Tantervale two months ago. Eventually he’d used some of his old contacts to find work hunting down Tevinter slavers, which suited him, then as a bodyguard, which bored him. But, his mood brooding and bleak, he didn’t care about much anymore. His life was meaningless.

Lying alone in his flea-ridden bed last night, half-drunk, he’d remembered a conversation he’d had with Hawke once in Danarius’ old, abandoned mansion. Hawke saying that when you give up your old life, it gives you a chance to start a new life. But what the fuck did he have now that was worth living for? Once, he’d had his revenge. Then he’d had Hawke. Now all he had was a backpack full of meager possessions, no family, no friends, and no clear-cut destination.

There was a throng of people congregating around the square’s notice board, all chattering heatedly so that their noises blended into a miasma of noise. Scanning the square, he noticed a lone elven woman at the edge of the crowd.

He approached her. “What’s happening?”

She looked curiously at his visible markings for a moment before she spoke. “Haven’t you heard about the Inquisition?”

Fenris had indeed heard that someone has reinstated the Inquisition, but that was Chantry business, so he hadn’t paid much attention. “What about it?”

“Well, word is that they’ve named the new Inquisitor,” she said. “And, not only that, he’s a Dalish elf!”

Fenris advanced a step, eyes flashing, voice rough. “What is his name?”

The woman shrank back with an expression of fear. “I don’t know!” When Fenris’ eyes flashed, she added quickly, “But maybe it’s on the missive they sent. It arrived by bird this morning.”

Fenris turned, and pushed his way through the crowd. _A Dalish elf,_ he thought. _No... it_ can’t _be him..._

Finally, after much shoving and cursing, he made it to the front. Tacked to the notice board was the missive. And since Hawke had insisted on teaching Fenris to read, Fenris read it. Every word.

There, near the bottom, in bold cursive: _Inquisitor Lavellan._

He felt strange. Almost electrified. So, Striker was still alive. And head of the Inquisition. And the missive had been sent from a place called Skyhold.

Fenris slipped back out of the crowd, his thoughts fiercely focused. He could still repay Striker by offering his sword to the Inquisition. And he now had a clear-cut destination.

Skyhold.

***

Traveling from Tantervale to Skyhold proved to be long, dangerous, and tiring. Once he’d reached the snow-covered mountains, he’d been forced to acquire a pair of fur-lined boots. _Kaffas,_ how he hated shoes. He hated the way they restricted his feet, slowed his pace, and – though he was no wood elf – separated him from the Earth. But it was better than risking frostbite.

He passed through the massive gates into a bustling courtyard full of fellow worn-weary travelers and armed guardsmen. After a quick scan of the courtyard, Fenris approached the nearest guard. “I need to speak with the Inquisitor.”

The guard sneered at him, then gestured at the crowd. “You and everyone else here, pal.”

Fenris uttered an exasperated growl. “Talking to you is useless. Bring me someone in charge.”

Anger darkened the guard’s expression. “Back _off,_ knife-ear,” he snarled, then placed a hand on Fenris’ shoulder and shoved.

A step back, then Fenris surged forward, his lyrium markings glowing, and seized the man by the throat. He snarled back, his voice all dark menace. “I said. Bring me. Someone. In charge.”

The other guards withdrew their swords, at the ready but hesitant to act. The soldier he had seized clawed at Fenris’ hand, but the elf only squeezed harder. A breathless squeak escaped his constricted windpipe. Then he rasped to the others, “Get the Commander!”

Several tense minutes passed. Without a commanding officer present to give them an order, the soldiers were reluctant to act on their own. When the guardsman in Fenris’ grasp tried to stealthily reach for his sword, Fenris rattled him, the lyrium under his skin intensifying its glow.

Footsteps, then the swaying clink of armor announced the Commander’s arrival. As Fenris turned his head, the Commander regarded him with surprise. “Fenris...?”

Like flames doused in a downpour, Fenris’ markings immediately ceased to burn. He released the guardsman as he turned fully to face the new arrival, equally surprised. “Cullen...?”

As the guardsman scrambled back, some of the others edged forward. Cullen halted them with a gesture. When the Commander gestured once more, they dutifully sheathed their weapons.

The ex-Templar stepped forward. “Fenris, what are you doing here?”

A cold wind whipped Fenris’ cloak around his legs, his hair into his eyes. “I’ve come to offer my sword to the Inquisition.”

Cullen had seen the elf in battle. There was no denying that his skill was impressive. “Your sword would be most welcome.”

“But first, I must speak to the Inquisitor.”

Cullen paused, his gaze penetrating. Then he nodded. “Come with me.”

***

Before leaving the courtyard, Cullen ordered one of his soldiers to find and inform the Inquisitor that Cullen required his presence in Cullen’s office as soon as possible. Then he bid Fenris to follow.

They had to climb many stairs to reach Cullen’s office near the top of the battlements. As Fenris trailed along beside him, Cullen asked questions about what had happened to him and Hawke after the mage rebellion. Fenris responded to these questions with a series of grunts. By the time they reached the office, Cullen had given up on trying to pry any information from the elf.

In the office, the silence was awkward. As Fenris paced the room, Cullen studied him. His white hair had gotten longer, but he wore the same black armor. He reminded Cullen of a caged animal – wiry, agitated, and feral. Not the Fenris he’d last known in Kirkwall, but the Fenris he used to know before Hawke had tamed him.

Fenris stopped before the bookcase. His grayish-green eyes slid back to Cullen.

Cullen lightly rested both hands on the pommel of his sword, thoughtful. “You know, I never would have thought you’d want to join the Inquisition.”

“Nor did I,” Fenris said. “And I never thought you’d leave the Templars.”

“After what happened with Meredith, I...”

Cullen trailed off as the door opened and the Inquisitor sailed in.

“Yes, Cullen?” he began, in that lilting voice of his. “What did you...” He stopped short at the sight of Fenris. With surprise he said, “Fenris...”

“Striker.”

Cullen’s gaze bounced between them. They were looking at each other intensely, eyes locked. Cullen noted their expressions. He’d never seen the Inquisitor smile like that before. As for Fenris, Cullen had seen his before. It was the same look he used to give Hawke around the time he’d started wearing that red scarf around his wrist. Both looks spoke volumes.

Cullen cleared his throat. “Then you... ah... know each other.”

The Inquisitor’s eyes snapped to Cullen, breaking off whatever silent conversation he’d been having with Fenris. “Fenris was a guest of the Lavellan clan a few months ago.”

“A debt I still need to repay,” Fenris said.

“Fen, I...” the Inquisitor began but, after a quick glance at Cullen, he started again. “You’re probably tired from your trip. Why don’t you settle in? We’ll make sure a hot meal is brought to you.” He glanced at Cullen again. “Commander, could you find Josephine and see if we can get Fenris a room?”

“Inquisitor. It shall be done.”

“Thank you, Commander.” He turned back to Fenris with that same enigmatic smile. “We’ll talk later.”

Fenris nodded. “As you wish.”

***

Fenris saw more of Skyhold after Striker’s departure.

First, Cullen had him down the ramparts into the main building. They descended more stairs, passed through a number of rooms, crossed the Great Hall, and down a corridor until they reached the office of Josephine Montilyet, the ambassador of the Inquisition.

After introductions, Cullen explained the situation. Josephine graciously agreed to see to the matter. Turning to leave, Cullen stopped to give Fenris a nod. “Welcome, Fenris,” he said. Then he gave the elf a strange, curious look. “I am certain that the Inquisitor will... _benefit_ from your skills.”

For a second, Fenris thought... _but, no. Cullen isn’t the type to engage in sexual innuendo._

With grace and efficiency, Josephine soon had Fenris settled at a table in a large, opulently-dressed room with tall, glass-paned windows, with a bowl of hot stew, a hunk of fresh bread, and a half-carafe of watered-down wine in front of him.

Josephine showed him the bell rope that would summon a servant should he have need of anything. “And please do not hesitate to let me know if there’s something else I can do for you.”

“Thank you,” Fenris said, somewhat bewildered as he watched her withdraw.

 _Striker. Cullen. Josephine. Is everyone in the Inquisition this nice?_ If so, he doubted he would fit in, and questioned his decision to join.

He was suddenly exhausted. Still, he managed to eat most of the food on the table before staggering across the room, kicking off the loathsome boots, and collapsing on the bed. So tired, despite all the thoughts swirling through his head, he soon fell asleep.

By the time he woke again, evening had fallen. Once he had lit the lamp by the bed, then splashed his face with cold water from a pitcher next to a basin in one corner of the room, a knock came at his door.

Bearing platters and pitchers, a bevy of servants swept into the room. Wordlessly they set their burdens upon the table. By the time they were done, a veritable feast was spread out. As the last of the servants filed out, Mahanon Lavellan appeared in the doorway.

He’d changed into something more formal – dark pants, and a pale silk shirt under a dark, velvety jacket that Fenris, if he’d been more interested in fashion, would have coveted. Tall black boots, tightly laced. The usually unruly chestnut hair was combed neatly into place. His spine was sword-blade straight. Voice light as bird song. “How are you, Fenris?”

Fenris didn’t even know where to begin. “I am fine...” he said, which was a lie. “Perhaps a bit... overwhelmed.”

Striker relaxed slightly. Smiled a little. “It _is_ overwhelming, isn’t it?”

For a moment they just stood, gazes locked.

“So...” Fenris said. “You’re Inquisitor now.”

Striker’s eyes twinkled with mirth. “So they keep telling me.”

“I heard what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes,” Fenris said. Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How did you even survive? And that mark on your hand – is it magic?”

Striker glanced down at his left hand. As he stared at the slash across his palm, he allowed it to glow a faint green. As usual, whenever he used the Anchor, it hurt. Extinguishing the mark, he forced a smile. “Let’s sit,” he suggested. “I’ll tell you everything while we eat.”

Over dinner, Striker told him the story of how he’d gained the mark. How they’d lost Haven. How he’d become Inquisitor. Fenris silently absorbed it all. By the end of the meal, he only had two questions.

He posed the first. “And you really think it was Andraste who saved you?”

Striker, grave, played with his glass. Certainly his advisers had no problem promoting the rumor that the human goddess Herself had saved him at the temple. “You don’t believe in the Creators?”

Fenris shook his head.

 _No, of course he doesn’t._ He’d forgotten that most city elves, except those of Dalish origin, tended to worship the gods of their non-elven compatriots. “I don’t know what to think,” Striker admitted. “All I know is that because of this mark, I’m the only one who can close the rifts.”

Fenris was thoughtful. Then he posed his second question. “This enemy you face. Corypheus. He’s a darkspawn that can speak, isn’t he?”

“The one supposedly killed by Garrett Hawke, yes.”

That gave Fenris pause. “How do you know about that?”

Striker’s fingers traced invisible patterns across the tabletop. Finally he admitted, “I’ve read Varric’s book.” When Fenris looked puzzled, he added, “ _Tale of the Champion.”_

It took a second for Fenris to fully grasp the meaning of that statement. Then he snorted softly. “Of course he would write a book about it,” he said, almost to himself. Fenris then fixed the other elf in his gaze. “And what else did he say?”

“Well,” Striker said, still chasing non-existent patterns in the wood grain, “Names were changed, of course, but he said that there was an elf – an ex-slave with lyrium markings who fought by the Champion’s side.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. Suspicious again. Knowing Varric, it was unlikely that he’d opted to leave certain details out. “What else did he say?”

“He said that you and the Champion were lovers, and that you escaped Kirkwall together after the fight.”

Fenris realized that he’d been holding his breath. He exhaled slowly. “Varric lies,” he said, “but that much is true.”

Soft hazel eyes roamed over his face, seeking. “But you were alone when we found you.”

_Alone._ Eyes flashing, Fenris growled. “He tried to kill me.”

Striker’s expression became grim. “Then... the Champion is the one who wounded you?”

“No,” Fenris said, sounding defeated, his previous ferocity gone. “Those wounds were from fighting darkspawn. But after... when I was weak...”

Trailing off, Fenris made a noise of exasperation.

“You know,” Striker said softly as he leaned back in his chair, “you can change the subject, Fenris.”

Fenris stared at his glass, drank the remaining wine in it, then let his eyes sweep the room. “Are all the bedrooms in Skyhold this opulent?”

Striker smiled slightly. “Ah, I should warn you. You’d better not get used to it. This is one of the rooms we reserve for visiting dignitaries, but Josephine didn’t have anything more squalid available. I’m certain she will oust you as soon as another room can be arranged.”

“That’s... fine.”

Striker folded his hands across his belt as he momentarily worried his bottom lip with his teeth. “There’s... there’s something else I should tell you.”

“Oh?”

“My copy of _Tale of the Champion_ was given to me by the author himself.”

Fenris couldn’t cover up his surprise. “Varric is _here?”_

“He’s joined the Inquisition,” Striker said. Then amended, “Well, sort of.”

Fenris was skeptical. “Joining the Inquisition – that doesn’t sound like him.”

“It’s a long story. I’d better let him tell it, though. Knowing Varric, if I stole his story, I’d probably end up a little more intimate with Bianca than I’d like.”

Good to know that Varric still carried his custom-made crossbow.

Striker added, “If you want to see him now, he’s probably in the tavern.”

Fenris thought. He’d wanted to see Varric only so he could find Hawke. If anyone knew where Hawke was, it would be Varric. He had no clear idea what he would do if he found Hawke again. Confront him? Forgive him? Kill him? He remembered how revenge tasted, like ashes.

_Hawke... no._ Just thinking about Hawke made his head tired and his empty heart ache. “No, not now,” Fenris said. “Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

“As you wish.” Striker smiled slyly at him. “You know, because of Varric, I’ve become quite good at Wicked Grace.”

Memories of their last night in the Dalish camp rushed back in. How the scattered cards had stuck to their skin. Fenris didn’t know what to do with that memory so he reached for the bottle of wine. “That is not surprising.”

Striker accepted the refilled glass.

For a moment they drank in companionable silence.

As they drank, Fenris became aware of Striker’s gaze on him, curious, seeking. Fenris raised an inquisitive eyebrow, prompting the hunter to speak.

“I’m glad you’re here, Fenris,” he said. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Fenris hadn’t missed the wistful note in Striker’s tone. “Nor I, you,” he admitted. “But I wanted to aid your cause.”

Striker looked at Fenris for a long time, then spoke softly. “Is that the only reason?”

The complication that Fenris had wished to avoid. He froze.

Striker leaned forward, setting his wine glass very carefully down on the table. “If you want me to stay the night... I am willing.”

At those words, Fenris felt his pulse quicken. He stared down into his glass, considering the Inquisitor’s offer. Eventually he forced himself to meet Striker’s eyes. “I... appreciate your interest,” he said. “But I do not think it would be... wise.”

A flicker of disappointment flashed across Striker’s face. “Forgive me if I presumed too much,” he said hastily as he rose from the table. “I’ll... let myself out.”

As the door clicked shut, Fenris wanted to kick himself. It was history repeating. Every time he got close to someone, he felt compelled to run away. 

He didn’t even  _like_ being alone. Especially in those long, dark nights with no one to chase away the painful memories of his past. Nights without strong arms to comfort, or sweet lips to distract.

_What_ in Andraste’s name was  _wrong_ with him?

 


	4. The Inquisition, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's about time for a Fenris/Varric reunion. Also, a scene from the Inquisitor's POV to give you a better idea of his character. I hope you like him!
> 
> Comments/kudos always appreciated!

Early the next afternoon, Fenris received a note from the Inquisitor, requesting that he meet with Cullen.

In Cullen’s office up on the ramparts again, Cullen explained that Fenris had been temporarily assigned to him. The Inquisition’s forces were growing rapidly, but a large number of the volunteers had little experience of battle. What Cullen needed was someone capable with a blade to train the new recruits.

Fenris wasn’t entirely convinced that he was suited to training recruits, but he’d offered to help the Inquisition, so he supposed he couldn’t be too choosy.

Once he’d agreed, Cullen brought him down to the training yard. There, he spent some time observing the awkward swordplay of the men before Cullen introduced him. It didn’t escape his notice that not all of the humans were comfortable with the idea of an elven commander, but at least no one directly questioned his authority. The training would begin tomorrow.

It was evening by the time he and Cullen parted ways. Fenris made his way to the Herald’s Rest.

He found Varric at the bar, a flagon of ale half-full before him. Fenris made his presence known with a brusque greeting. “Dwarf.”

Varric turned. Then smiled at him as if they had seen each other yesterday and not years ago in the Hanged Man in Kirkwall. “Well, well,” Varric drawled. “If it isn’t the broodiest elf in all of Thedas.”

Fenris sat on the empty bar stool beside him. “You don’t seem surprised to see me, Varric.”

Varric made a vague gesture. “Well, perhaps that’s because you aren’t the first person to come talk to me today, the first being a certain Inquisitor who might have mentioned you were here,” he said. “He was also quite curious to find out if he should let you join the Inquisition.”

_Did he now?_ Fenris’ tone became frosty. “Oh?”

Varric chuckled, a low sound deep in his throat. “Don’t worry. I assured him that you knew that the pointy end of the sword is used for killing things.”

Fenris grunted. “And to think that I actually missed you.”

Varric’s expression became bemused. “Was that affection, Broody?” he asked teasingly. “Be still my heart.”

“Don’t get used to it, Varric. It’s unlikely that it will happen again.”

Varric toyed with his flagon as he gave Fenris a long, serious look. “You know,” he said, “you were pretty much the last person I expected to show up here... without Hawke.”

_Hawke._ Even now, the mere mention of that name rattled Fenris, crashing through him like a stampeding dragon and rattling his heart. “Hawke and I, we’re not...” he began, but then trailed off, lacking the appropriate words. “We’re just...  _not.”_

Varric gave him another long, serious look. Then a smile brightened his expression. “Come on, Broody. You need a drink.”

One thing that Fenris had always appreciated about Varric – he was no fool. He always knew when to change the subject, and when not to pry.

Fenris gave him a slip of a smile. “As long as you put it on your tab.”

***

One drink turned into three.

As they drank in the tavern. Fenris listened as Varric recounted the story of how he had ended up in the Inquisition. Varric – having sensed that the topic was a sensitive one – didn’t bring up Hawke again, and Fenris didn’t ask him if he knew anything regarding Hawke’s current whereabouts. Better, Fenris told himself, to just forget about Hawke. To move on with his life. To let the Inquisition give him a new purpose. Although he’d only spent a few hours in Cullen’s company, it was clear that the Inquisition had given the ex-Templar, at least, a chance at redemption. Perhaps the Inquisition could do the same for him.

Naturally, they had also spoken about the Inquisition itself, as if it were a separate entity, like a seven-headed hydra or a well-oiled machine. Varric, who needed little urging to pontificate, had given Fenris all the essential details, as well as colorful descriptions of all the key players in this unfolding drama. The way he spoke, Fenris was convinced that Varric was already writing a book about it in his head, if not on actual parchment. And it was with great glee that Varric revealed what Fenris already knew:that Corypheus was behind the entire affair.

That was still a nearly unbelievable bit of information for Fenris to digest. Especially since Fenris still recalled quite clearly that moment in which he had put the Blade of Mercy straight through the darkspawn magister’s heart.

Yes, Fenris was certain that he could give himself to the Inquisition’s cause. Let the Inquisition’s purpose be his own.

Varric had also talked about Inquisitor Lavellan, as well. All of his words like bright candy starlight, dripping with glowing admiration. Even Hawke, despite Varric’s fondness for the man, had never been painted in such a flattering light. In his stories at the Hanged Man to whomever would listen, Varric had embellished his tales of Hawke as the bold and mighty dragon-slayer. The Inquisitor, however, was a man pure of heart and beyond reproach. The defender of the downtrodden: the elves, the refugees, the weary and the hopeless.

Fenris was still thinking about the Inquisitor as he staggered out of the tavern and back towards his room. At that moment, Fenris was nearly overcome by the strong urge to see him. He needed Striker to be his friend. Except he didn’t know, exactly, how one went about gaining an audience with the Inquisitor at such a late hour.

In the main hall, he spotted an elven woman dressed in the livery of a servant. As she was about to pass him, he spoke out. “Wait.”

Wide blue eyes blinked at him. “Yes, ser?”

“Do you know where I might find the Inquisitor?”

The servant gave a dutiful bow. “Yes, ser. He’s usually in his quarters at this hour.”

Fenris paused. “And... where might his quarters be?”

The servant regarded him curiously for a moment. But then she made a small gesture with her hand. “Down to the end. Door on the left. Then up the stairs.”

Fenris thanked her. With another polite bow, the servant continued on her way.

 _Security here could be better,_ Fenris thought. The woman hadn’t even known him. He could have been an assassin, but she’d given up the information about the Inquisitor’s whereabouts readily.

Turning, Fenris continued on his way to the end of the hall where he passed through the door on the left, then began climbing the stars.

Finally he reached the landing, and found himself in a spacious room. Not far from the stairs he saw Striker at the desk, who, at Fenris’ arrival, turned in his chair with a questioning look.

Fenris’ tone was accusatory. “You don’t have locks on your doors.”

Striker studied him, with an expression so guarded it was almost blank. Then something resembling amusement crept over his features. “I have guards who come running,” he said. Then, smiling, added, “And, in case you’ve forgotten, I have these.”

With a graceful flick of his wrists, both of the daggers hidden up his sleeves slid down into his hands. The silvery blades glinted in the soft light of the lamps before he set them gently down upon the desk. Expression guarded again, voice light, almost airy. “What can I do for you, Fenris?”

“About that night...” Fenris began, then shifted his gaze slightly, to rest on the bookshelf to Striker’s left. “At camp...”

Something in Striker’s expression shifted. Then he turned more fully in his chair, hazel eyes fixed on Fenris. “You don’t owe me an explanation,” he said. “I understand. What happened at the camp... it was revenge sex.”

Fenris’ eyes shifted back to the man. “Revenge sex?”

Striker shrugged. “The man you loved had hurt you, and the only way you could hurt him back was to betray him with someone else.”

Fenris realized that there was truth in what Striker said, so there was little point in trying to deny it. “And... that doesn’t bother you?”

“You were a wounded animal when you came to us,” Striker said bluntly, but not unkindly. “I tried not to... get too close.”

_Animal. Beast. Wolf._ That’s what they all called him. Danarius. Then the hunters he’d sent. Even strangers he’d met in his travels. Anders. 

So be it. 

Teeth bared, Fenris growled. “And did you succeed?”

Striker quickly turned his face away. In that gesture, an unspoken confession.

Fenris briefly closed his eyes. Exhaled slowly. That had been unkind of him. “It wasn’t...  _just_ revenge,” he admitted.

Striker’s curious gaze slid back to him. Softly he asked, “Then what was it?”

It was... a distraction he’d needed at the time. A complication that he didn’t.

_A second chance._

He barely knew this man. They’d spent only a handful of weeks together. And yet... he knew enough. He knew how it felt to willingly offer up his body – pain, scars, and all – for this man’s pleasure. How it had felt to lose him when Fenris had believed him dead. How the memory of their love-making had haunted him as he lay, alone, in his flea-ridden bed in Tantervale. 

There was an edge to Fenris’ laugh – dark as night in the Arbor Wilds, bitter as elfroot. “I’m a fool,” he muttered.

Confusion furrowed Striker’s brow.

“Anytime anyone gets too close to me... I run away. I even tried to run from Hawke, but he... but he wouldn’t let me.”

Striker pushed back his chair. Then crossed the room. Voice hushed. “Fen?”

“I didn’t want you to go last night,” Fenris said. “I didn’t want to be alone.”

Striker’s expression softened, but there was an unmistakeable hint of wariness in his voice when he spoke again. “If I let you stay... how do I know you won’t run away again in the morning?”

“You don’t.”

Striker’s lips quirked up in a sad, bitter little smile. “At least you’re honest.”

“I will never lie to you,” Fenris said. “I can promise you that.”

Striker paused, searching Fenris’ eyes. Stepping forward, he lifted the hand without the mark towards Fenris. But stopped himself before they touched, his hand hovering, uncertain, in the space between them.

Fenris reached out. Taking Striker’s hand in his own, he brought it up to his face. Eyes steady on Striker’s as the hunter’s thumb ghosted over his lips, careful to avoid the lyrium scars just below.

Fenris, staring intently, caught it – that moment when something determined came into Striker’s eyes. A decision made to take a chance. “Fenris,” he said softly, but with conviction. “Please. Stay.”

Fenris stayed.

***

A clatter woke him in the morning.

In a heartbeat, Fenris was sitting up in bed, hand outstretched and groping for a sword that wasn’t there. It took him a moment to remember that he’d left his weapon in his room before he’d gone to find Varric in the tavern.

Across the room, he spotted a servant. A young human woman standing by the desk. Hands open in front of her. He realized that the noise he’d heard was the girl dropping her tray upon the desk.

Beside him, the Inquisitor stirred, running a hand back through his disheveled hair as he sat up in the bed.

For a moment, the girl stared at them with wide-eyed surprise. “Oh!” she cried. “Er.... beg pardon, Your Worship.”

Blushing, the girl turned and hastened away, the click of her shoes echoing down the stairs until the sound faded and disappeared.

Half-awake, both elves sat in silence. Fenris then flicked his gaze down. Both of them were naked in the Inquisitor’s bed, though, fortunately, the sheet did cover the essential parts. Still, by the servant’s reaction, it was fair to assume that finding the Inquisitor in bed with another man was not a typical occurrence.

Fenris grunted. “What was that?”

Striker’s eyes slid over to Fenris briefly. Then he slipped out from under the sheets. Naked, he sauntered casually over to the desk where he lifted the silver dome on the tray to peek below. “Hmm,” Striker murmured. “It looks suspiciously like breakfast.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Fenris grumbled. _Kaffas,_ didn’t this blighted man realize how dangerous it was that just anyone could sneak into his quarters and easily slit his throat in his sleep? “This is why you should have locks on your doors.”

Striker looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he smiled wryly. “I’m Dalish, remember? We don’t like locks. Or _doors._ Or not feeling the earth beneath our feet.” Eyes narrowing, his smile slipped. “My advisers insist that I wear shoes. ‘Andraste forbid’ that anyone think that the mighty Inquisitor is some barefoot, backwater _elf.”_

There didn’t seem to be anything to say to that. Fenris frowned.

Striker turned back to the tray. Selected two items from it before he sauntered back to the bed. Naturally, Fenris watched him do it. Even by elven standards, he wasn’t a very large man – a bit shorter than Fenris and built slim – but he was graceful, and so very beautiful.

_Small, graceful, and quick – he’d make a perfect assassin._

“Here,” Striker said, as he pressed one of the objects into Fenris’ hand. “It’s tea.”

Fenris took a long, much-needed swallow. Then tea sloshed all over his hand and the sheet between his legs as Striker carelessly tossed himself back down on the bed, unfolding the other object in his hand – a letter.

Fenris grumbled under his breath as he pulled the wet part of the sheet away from his legs. Then took another sip of his tea as Striker hummed thoughtfully. “Something wrong?”

Striker folded the note up again. “It’s from Varric,” he revealed. “He wants to discuss something with me.”

Fenris wasn’t a morning person. As far as he was concerned, there had already been far too much conversation this early. Lifting the cup to his lips again, he merely grunted.

Striker tossed the note aside. Looked at Fenris for a long, assessing moment. “I see you haven’t run away yet.”

Fenris nearly choked. Then he cleared his throat. “Well,” he mumbled. “You did give me tea.”

Striker’s expression became soft again. “I’ll have to remember to always keep some tea on hand, then.”

Then Fenris did something Striker had never seen him do before – he smiled. A real one – warm and genuine. “Yes. That would be wise.”

Striker stared at him. “Creators, you’re beautiful.”

Fenris felt a warmth infuse his chest. The same warmth that flushed his face. A bit awkwardly, he cleared his throat. “I could say the same of you.”

Pleasure lit up Striker’s eyes. “Fenris...” he murmured, voice soft. Sweet.

This. It was getting dangerous. It was too soon for sentimentality. They barely knew each other. They’d had sex twice. They hadn’t even talked about the parameters of their relationship: what they were doing, what they wanted, what this meant.

“Your breakfast is getting cold,” Fenris said. A diversionary tactic. “You should eat it.”

Striker looked at him for another moment. Then he shifted, kneeling up in the bed, and plucked up the edge of the sheet. “Strangely,” he said as he drew the sheet back from Fenris’ body with a saucy smile, “what I’m hungry for isn’t eggs and toast.”

“Striker.” Fenris lifted one eyebrow as the Inquisitor positioned himself between Fenris’ legs, his hands falling to the unmarked skin just above Fenris’ hips. “It’s too early for this.”

“Fen,” Striker countered, as he settled himself. “The Lavellan clan isn’t very big. Do you know how many of the males of my clan prefer the company of men? One. Me.” He let his fingers trail up between Fenris’ thighs. “If you’re going to consent to being in my bed, then... well, there’s a lot of lost time I need to make up for.”

“I... don’t you have to go meet Varric?”

“Varric can wait,” Striker breathed, then bent his head.

Fenris sucked in a sharp breath as Striker’s hot tongue lapped hungrily up the length of his shaft. Fumbling, Fenris somehow managed to set the tea cup aside without spilling it. Then, as Striker’s tongue began to dance and swirl most decadently around him, Fenris made soft breathy sounds, twining the fingers of both hands into Striker’s silky dark hair, as his hips involuntarily bucked up with a desperate need for  _more._

_Yes,_ Fenris thought.  _Varric can wait._

***

In the end, despite the tardiness of his entrance, the Inquisitor still arrived in the War Room before Varric.

The Seeker and all three of Lavellan’s advisers were already there. He’d barely taken his place at the table before they’d begun to discuss what needed to be done about Corypheus. Silent, cocking his ear, the Inquisitor listened as they trod over the same old ground. Josephine suggesting diplomacy. Leliana a more secretive approach. Cullen a show of force. And Cassandra always pragmatic.

Over the past few months, he’d gotten to know them quite well. But they would never be his friends.  _Could_ not. They were  _shemlen._

Mahanon Lavellan was not a happy man. Not since the incident at the Temple of Sacred Ashes that had bestowed this cursed mark upon him, with its corresponding ability to close the rifts. Separated from his people, he was now forced to live among the  _shemlen._ Isolated from his clan. In a half-ruined fortress made of stone. In the perpetual cold of the mountains. 

He couldn’t even make friends with the other elves in the Inquisition. Both Solas and Sera had made their feelings very clear. Neither one of them felt connected to the elves, and any time Lavellan spoke of the Dalish, the tone of his conversations with them always took an antagonistic turn, often ending in insults to his people.

_Proud. Arrogant. Ignorant._

And yet, although it was subtle, everyone in the Inquisition expected him to swallow his pride. To be  _less Dalish_ . Less elfy. To ignore the racist slurs. The sneers. The disdain in the eyes of all those who looked down at him, with unspoken questions in their eyes:  _This little knife-ear? The leader of the Inquisition? Is this a joke?_

There was only one person with whom Lavellan felt truly at ease – Shianril, one of the Chargers whom everyone referred to simply as ‘Dalish.’ But, between his travels and the Chargers’ missions, they rarely had time to meet.

As lonely and miserable as he’d been the past few months, Lavellan also knew that he couldn’t leave. Corypheus’ threat meant that the Dalish were in danger, as well. For his clan, Lavellan would do anything to keep them safe. Even if it meant wearing  _shoes._

And then, just two days ago, everything had unexpectedly changed.

At some point, Lavellan stopped listening to the talk of his advisers. Distracted, his mind kept returning to that moment in which he had walked into Cullen’s office two days ago, and the events in his bed last night.

_I’m not alone. I have a lover._

And not just any lover.

The first and only man he’d fallen in love with.

He’d been taken with the strange elf nearly from the moment he’d laid eyes on him in the woods. Soon, he’d become hopelessly smitten. But Lavellan had tried to keep his feelings hidden. Fenris was injured. Mistrustful. Hints of sexual abuse in his past. So he hadn’t dared to make a move, knowing that the odds of things working in his favor were impossible. Only to be completely caught off guard by Fenris’ seduction.

One night of passion. The most he’d ever been able to hope for, on those rare occasions when he’d crossed paths with another Dalish clan, and could weed out another elven male who shared his tastes. He certainly never imagined that he would ever see Fenris again, much less hold him in his arms.

Lavellan was no fool. He’d gleaned enough from his conversations with Fenris about his past in slavery to know that what Fenris had given him was an almost-miraculous gift. Not only his body, but his trust. And perhaps even a small part of his heart?

As the women argued on the other side of the table, Lavellan suddenly became aware of Cullen, leaning close to his ear. “You’re smiling, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan startled. Noted Cullen’s knowing look. Then quickly composed himself, swallowing down his smile.

Just in time, because it was at that moment that Varric Tethras walked in.

“I know someone who can help us,” Varric announced. “Everyone acting so inspirational jogged my memory. So I sent a message to an old friend. And... he’s here.”

“If he can help...” the Inquisitor decided “... then we should go speak with him.”

Varric made a gesture to the door.

As the Inquisitor skirted the table to follow the dwarf out, Cassandra muttered under her breath. “It had better not be who I think it is.”

 


	5. The Inquisition, Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you know me, you know I ship Dorian/Fenris. NOT HERE THOUGH. Dorian, you should be grateful that you're still alive after what you say.
> 
> I note also that Fenris says something that's supposed to be Qunlat, but which is partially fabricated by me.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The sun was bright, shining down on Skyhold, bleaching the gray-stone ramparts white.

For some reason it didn’t occur to the Inquisitor who Varric’s friend might be. Not until they came down the stairs into a quiet section facing south, and Varric lifted his arm with a little flourish. “Inquisitor. I present to you – Hawke.”

The Inquisitor froze. Only the Creators knew what his face was doing.

For a moment, all he could think was: _This man tried to kill Fenris._

Garrett Hawke. Tall. Dark hair that fell into shrewd honey brown eyes. Ruggedly handsome good looks. Armor dented but polished bright, with a long sword in a worn scabbard strapped to his side. As he turned, his gaze swept curiously over the Inquisitor.

Lavellan’s fingers twitched. Two flicks, and his deadly knives would be in his hands. He was not his clan’s prized hunter without reason. He’d once fought and slaughtered a rabid bear in less than minute with nothing more than his wits and his twin blades.

And a _shem_ ’s throat was softer than a halla’s.

It took him a moment to remember _why_ Hawke was here – to aid the Inquisition.

He cast a furious glance at Varric.

In response, Varric just gave a little shrug. No help at all.

Turning back to the Champion, the Inquisitor nodded as respectfully as he could. “Welcome to Skyhold.”

“Yes, well...” Hawke said, leaning back against the wall of the ramparts. “Varric was very persuasive.”

Lavellan made an effort to still his fingers. Stepped forward so that he was standing next to Hawke, and leaned his arms against the battlements. The pressure of his knives in their sheathes where they were strapped to his forearms was vaguely comforting. “Tell me about Corypheus.”

The Inquisitor listened as Hawke spoke. Asked questions when clarification was needed. And agreed to meet Hawke’s Grey Warden contact in Crestwood.

“Then I will leave in two days’ time,” Hawke said. “I suggest you wait a day. It will give me time to warn the Warden that you’re coming.”

“Your plan is reasonable.”

Hawke nodded. Then let his honeyed eyes sweep once more over the Inquisitor. “Did you have any other questions?”

“Yes,” the Inquisitor said, eyes cutting like razors. “I am curious about one thing.”

“Oh?”

“I thought you were with Fenris.”

His words struck hard and deep. Before his eyes, the Champion of Kirkwall unraveled. Pain flooded his face, and his whole body seemed to sag as if all the weight of the world had suddenly crashed down upon his shoulders. For a moment, Hawke remained speechless.

Then he snapped a glare in Varric’s direction. Anger roughened his voice. “How much, exactly, have you told the Inquisitor about me?”

Varric put on a positively innocent face. “What?” he protested. “He read the book.”

Hawke’s gaze lingered on Varric for a moment. Then he sighed. “Fenris...” he began, his voice hollow. “Fenris is dead.”

The Inquisitor prompted him. “Dead?”

“We’d been fighting darkspawn. He got infected with the Blight. And then...”

“Hawke...” Varric said. “What happened?”

“You saw what it did to Bethany I...” Hawke paused. Swallowed before he could continue. “I just wanted to spare him that agony.”

Varric’s voice took on an edge. “Hawke...? What did you _do?”_

Hawke’s eyes dripped with profound guilt as he looked at his friend. “I only meant to put him out of his misery,” Hawke explained. _Maker,_ how he needed Varric to understand. “But... he fought me. I looked for him, but I couldn’t find him. I can only assume that he dragged himself off somewhere to die.” Hawke swallowed again. “Alone.”

Silence fell.

Defeated, still oozing pain, Hawke turned and stared blankly out at the landscape.

Lavellan stared at Hawke’s back, strangely conflicted. A part of him wanted to put a comforting hand on Hawke’s shoulder. The other part of him still wanted to shove the man right off the battlements, preferably with a knife in his spine.

He did take the opportunity, though, to shoot another silent glare at Varric. A look that spoke more than volumes. A look that practically screamed all the books that Dorian had caressed in Skyhold’s makeshift library.

Varric lifted his hands in a defensive gesture.

Lavellan responded by glaring at Varric _harder._

Varric’s refusal came as a decisively curt shake of his head.

The Inquisitor bit back a sigh. It had to be said, he knew that. “Fenris isn’t dead.”

Hawke whipped back around. Incredulous. “How do you know?”

“Because my clan found him,” he said flatly. “We nursed him back to health. He stayed for a while, then he left.”

A small light of hope crept into Hawke’s disbelief. “That’s not possible,” he said. “No one survives the Blight.”

“Our First thought it had something to do with his lyrium markings. That they somehow kept him alive.”

In silence, Hawke stared at the Inquisitor as the elf’s words slowly sank in. Wanting to disbelieve it. Needing to believe. Lavellan recognized the precise moment when Hawke accepted that he was hearing the truth, that Fenris was indeed still alive.

Hawke’s hand tightened around the cold, sun-bleached stone of the wall. “I... if you’ll excuse me, Inquisitor... I’ll need some time alone.”

***

They trudged in silence halfway back down the battlements.

Then the Inquisitor’s hand clamped down on Varric’s shoulder, roughly forcing the dwarf to stop and face him. “You didn’t tell him Fenris was here!”

“If I may point out,” Varric said, quite diplomatically, “neither did you.”

The Inquisitor growled a curse. _“Fenedhis!”_

Varric’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. It was the first time he’d ever heard the man swear, in any language. Even in his cups, the Inquisitor’s King’s Tongue was more grammatical and pristine than a Chantry Mother’s.

“Look,” Varric said with a sigh. “I had the impression from Fenris that the two of them had parted ways. He mentioned nothing about darkspawn, or the Blight, or Hawke trying to kill him. And he certainly didn’t seem interested in seeing Hawke again, so... maybe I didn’t tell him Hawke was coming.”

The Inquisitor stepped back, then slumped against the wall, his expression pained, as one hand rubbed at his forehead. “This is a mess,” he groaned. “Fen will find out sooner or later that he’s here. We have to tell him.”

Varric didn’t disagree. “Maybe with some damage control... this won’t be so bad,” he said, attempting to sound more optimistic than he felt. “I’ll talk to Hawke. You talk to Fenris. Do you know where he is now?”

All of the blood suddenly drained from the Inquisitor’s face. “Yes,” he said, in barely more than a whisper. “In my bed.”

That... was not what Varric had been expecting to hear. Stunned, he opened his mouth, but for once he had no words. _Broody and the Inquisitor?_ That made no sense. Since this whole Inquisition business had started, Lavellan had avoided all discussion of sex. Didn’t flirt with anyone. The only thing anyone knew about their Inquisitor’s love life was that he had been betrothed to some Dalish woman from a different clan, and that their bonding ceremony – or whatever it was that Dalish elves did – had been arranged to take place shortly after his return from the Conclave. Except that Corypheus had tossed a lyrium dragon sized wrench into those plans. And there’d certainly been no signs that the Inquisitor enjoyed the company of his own sex.

And Broody – well, he was the last person who would easily stumble into anyone’s bed. Only after three years of persistent flirting had Hawke finally managed to get a taste of Fenris’ inaccessible flesh. And even then, things hadn’t gone smoothly.

Varric cleared his throat. “Well,” he said pragmatically. “That complicates things.”

Silent, the Inquisitor stared down at the ground.

By the expression on the Inquisitor’s face, it became clear to Varric that whatever was going on between the two elves, it wasn’t just physical. “I don’t suppose you have any idea what Fenris might do when he finds out Hawke is here?”

The Inquisitor crossed his arms. Stared off into the distance, thinking. “He... he didn’t want to talk about it. He was hurt. Angry.”

“That sounds about right for Fenris.”

Finally, the Inquisitor heaved a sigh. “Fine,” he said. “You go talk to Hawke. I’ll talk to Fenris. But... what happens next will be Fenris’ choice.”

That was the Inquisitor they knew and loved. Always able to make a decision, no matter how difficult. And unusually reasonable. Respectful of others. Fair.

“Agreed,” Varric said.

The dwarf turned and scampered off, back towards Hawke.

***

For a while after the Inquisitor left, Fenris lazed in the tangled sheets.

He felt strangely... comfortable.

 _That_ was unexpected.

Stretching out his arms, he noted the space beside him was still warm. Lingering heat from the Inquisitor’s body. A trace of his scent on the pillow, in the sheets. The hint of sex.

Eventually he rose. Found his clothes where they had been scattered carelessly upon the floor, and dressed. Then sat down at the Inquisitor’s desk, pouring himself another cup of tea from the small ceramic pot, and eating the breakfast that Striker had suggested he have, right before he’d hurried off to meet Varric.

The eggs were cold, but Fenris didn’t care. In fact, he barely tasted the food, as his thoughts continued to wander back to the night he’d just spent with Striker.

At some point, he realized that he was smiling to himself.

As he bit into a cold piece of toast, he berated himself. He still didn’t know what they were doing. Where this relationship was going. What Striker wanted – if anything – beyond having sex. What he himself wanted.

Fenris had finished both breakfast and the last of the tea, but still hadn’t found any definitive answers to his questions, when the Inquisitor returned. With a heavy tread and a pale, grim face, which immediately set Fenris on edge.

Fenris turned in the chair, ready to spring. “Something’s wrong.”

Striker stopped a few feet away from Fenris. Drew in a deep breath. “Fenris? There’s something I need to tell you...”

Fenris listened as Striker told him everything. Felt his stomach drop. By the end, he was ice.

Eventually Striker stopped speaking. Fenris had remained perfectly silent the entire time, as still as a statue, expression blank. Striker waited a moment. Then another moment until he could wait no more.

“Fenris?”

A muscle twitched in Fenris’ jaw. “I should go,” he finally said.

Striker watched as Fenris pushed back the chair. Stood up. Then, as Fenris passed by him, Striker put a hand on his shoulder.

Green-gray eyes jumped to his. Raging, hurt. A growl escaped his throat. His voice a sharp bark. “Don’t comfort me!”

Stung, Striker silently withdrew his hand.

Fenris growled again. Then turned to leave, his footfalls loud and angry as he stomped down the stairs.

***

_Hawke... Hawke is here._

It felt like his skin was too thin to contain the tides of emotion that raged inside him. Thoughts churning. Chest tight. Hands shaking. He’d thought he’d gotten past this – that it had gotten better – so why did it still _hurt this much?_

Agitated, Fenris wandered aimlessly through Skyhold. After only two days, he still didn’t know his way around very well, and soon became lost. But, trapped and tormented by his thoughts, he didn’t care.

So, Hawke was here at Skyhold. But he would be leaving to meet his Gray Warden friend in Crestwood in two days. Fenris knew all of Hawke’s contacts in the Wardens, of course. _Stroud, probably... or Alistair... or possibly Howe..._ From what Striker had said, Hawke had been up to _something_ in the past few months, but Fenris wasn’t sure what.

 _Hawke... here to aid the Inquisition._ Fenris could hardly believe that. Not after all this time of being on the run, of avoiding the Seekers, of remaining uninvolved. And he couldn’t believe that Varric – _that bastard!_ – hadn’t warned him of the Champion’s imminent arrival.

He still didn’t know what he wanted to do when he finally confronted Hawke. Still conflicted. Should he forgive Hawke? Or simply tear out the Champion’s still-beating heart?

Eventually he found himself in a library.

Fenris stopped to examine his surroundings. Shelves lined the circular walls of the tower. There were many people here, mostly reading at tables or in the niches, but any speaking voices were hushed. To his immediate left, in one of the built-in nooks, he spied a a man sitting in a rather beaten-up leather armchair, with a book open on his knee. Normally, Fenris wouldn’t have spared the man more than a cursory glance, but the man was staring at him quite openly.

Fenris assessed him in a heartbeat. His clothes – all straps and buckles and revealing one shoulder – screamed Tevinter. Dark hair, golden brown skin, carefully cultivated mustache, solidly-built body. He wasn’t young, though several years younger than Fenris. Handsome.

There was something familiar about this man, but no matter how hard he searched his memory banks, Fenris couldn’t quite place him.

As they stared at each other, in the man’s eyes there was a spark of recognition. Setting aside his book, he stood.

Fenris had spent so many years as Danarius’ pet that he was attuned to the subtleties of difference between the classes in Tevinter. Everything about this man screamed _magus, altus, magister._ As he approached, Fenris felt an ancient spike of fear, and automatically flinched back.

The dark-skinned man sauntered closer, close enough that Fenris could see the wonder in his pale gray eyes. “I know you,” he said, voice rich with the cultured clip typical of the Tevinter nobility. “You – you’re Fenris.”

Suddenly the memory, as if greased, slid into place. He remembered a young, bronze-skinned man with longer hair, clean-shaven, dressed ostentatiously in black and gold. The son and his father – _Pavus_ was the name – as infrequent guests at some of Danarius’ parties where Fenris had served drinks.

Yes, he was certain of it – this man was that boy. The son of a powerful magister.

Under his skin, the lyrium hummed.

He would not be afraid.

“You’re a long way from Tevinter, _mage.”_

At the hostility in Fenris’ tone, Dorian stopped short.

“What are _you_ doing here?”

For a moment, Dorian stared at the elf with confusion. Then he tilted up his chin, and made a sweeping, almost flamboyant gesture with his hand. “I could ask you the same,” he said. “But _I_ am here to insure that at least one person from our country is involved in the defeat of Corypheus.”

Fenris practically spat at him. “Tevinter is _not_ my country.”

“Not your...?” It took a moment for the meaning of those words to sink in. That this elf hadn’t been born into slavery. Which wasn’t surprising given the rumors about what he’d done after his escape. Which Dorian was quite curious about.

“Is it true?” he asked. “That you killed Danarius?”

Fenris asked himself why he was even talking to this man – the son of an Imperial slave-owning magister. The epitome of everything that had _hurt_ him and made him _hate._ Along with the thread of fear that lingered deep in his heart, he felt a surge of rage.

Green eyes narrowed. His voice was a hair-raising growl. “Just give me cause, mage, and you’ll be next.”

His words had their intended effect. Panic flashed across Dorian’s face as he took a step back, recoiling in shock.

Then, once again, the mage’s countenance smoothed out. Straightening his back, he looked down at Fenris. Voice icy, words clipped. “I think I preferred you in chains.”

Anger flared, burning hotter. He nearly lit the lyrium under his skin. Instead, he let out a wolfish growl before he spun on his heels and strode angrily out of the library.

Shaking in outrage, Dorian Pavus lifted a hand to his chest, protectively over his heart, as he thought about the brutal fate of Magister Danarius at the hands of that beast of an elf.

***

Even more agitated after his encounter with the mage from Tevinter, Fenris went looking for his room. Which he found once he’d finally gotten his bearings enough to recognize his surroundings, and where he picked up his sword.

He’d seen a training yard when he’d arrived. He didn’t want to think anymore. He wanted to hit something. Badly.

Without trouble, he found his way from his room to the training yard. Other than a human sparring with a Qunari, the yard was empty. Ignoring them, Fenris crossed the yard where he took a stance before one of the training dummies as he drew his sword.

_Damn Hawke. Damn Varric. Damn that filthy mage from Tevinter._

A fierce battle cry roared from Fenris’ throat as he took a swing. Lyrium flared, giving him inhuman strength. Such was the power behind the swing that his sword sheered the dummy’s head clear off its indestructible body, and sent it sailing through the air.

It landed several feet away, slamming into the ground with a satisfying _thump._

A moment later, a voice rumbled behind him, deep and rolling like thunder. “Care to spar? You look like you could use a target that will fight back.”

Fenris turned. Standing behind him was the Qunari. In one hand he held a rather large long sword, in the other a shield, both lowered towards the ground in a non-threatening manner. Like any Qunari warrior, he was big and looked tough, an impression that was only enhanced by his numerous scars and the eye patch on the left side of his face. A quick glance determined that the man’s human companion was now leaning back against the nearby wall, arms crossed loosely in front of him, head cocked, watching with casual interest.

Fenris considered the offer only briefly. _“Shanedan, valo-kas,”_ he said with a polite nod of his head. _“_ You have a deal.”

At his use of Qunlat, the Qunari looked surprised, but didn’t say anything. Instead he took a few steps back towards the center of the yard and took a fighting stance.

Fenris lifted the Blade of Mercy and then rushed forward to attack.

They were well-matched. The fight was fierce, punctuated by blood-curdling cries and the resounding clang of steel on steel. Soon they had drawn a small crowd of spectators, who remained at a safe distance, coin exchanging hands as the betting began.

Fenris was fast on his feet. Despite the Qunari’s bulk, however, he was able to keep up easily, parrying the swings of Fenris’ deadly blade, or sidestepping before spinning to return a swift riposte. Soon Fenris was breathing hard, still swinging, studying his opponent for an opening.

 _He isn’t using his shield to block,_ Fenris noted. That was strange. He eventually realized why as the Qunari raised the shield and rushed at him. His intention was clear – to bash into Fenris with it and knock him down to the ground.

One hit from that shield would result in the end of the fight, if not with Fenris broken. He had to make a snap decision – go on the defensive and retreat, yield and admit defeat, or go on the offensive and attack.

He did have one possible advantage – one he hadn’t used yet. However, he knew he wouldn’t have another chance. As the Qunari charged, Fenris quickly dodged to the Qunari’s left.

The side with the eye patch.

Unable to see his opponent, the Qunari screeched to a halt. Fumbled so briefly that only a seasoned warrior would have noticed. Then whirled around, readying to defend.

Fenris was nearly on top of him. Sword flying through the air, pressing him back with a rapid series of vicious strikes. And then, with a savage cry, as the lyrium blazed beneath his skin, Fenris brought down his sword in a mighty blow.

The Qunari’s shield splintered in two.

His eye wide, the large man watched as the elf stepped back, lowering his weapon. Despite his dripping sweat and heaving chest, the elf sketched a respectful little bow.

The Qunari considered his shield briefly before dropping the pieces on the ground. Then he laughed heartily. Over his shoulder, he shouted to his red-haired companion who was still leaning against the wall. “See that, Krem?” he boomed. “Now _that_ was a fight!”

“Yeah, Chief,” Krem called back with a wry smile. “He nearly cut off that big fat head of yours.”

Still grinning, he stepped forward and slapped Fenris on the shoulder. “Feeling better, elf?”

Fenris barely managed to keep from crumpling under the sheer weight of that huge hand. He considered how he felt. “Strangely... I do.”

“Good,” the Qunari said with approval. Fenris squeaked as the man clapped him once more on the shoulder. “Name’s Iron Bull. Come back anytime you feel like hitting something.”


	6. Hawke, Part I

After his fight with Bull, Fenris holed up in his room, brooding, until he came to a decision.

Against the wall there was a small writing desk. Fenris rifled through it until he found what he needed: ink, parchment, quill. Sitting down on the chair, his uncapped the ink, dipped in the quill, and meticulously began to write.

Although Hawke had taught him how to read, Fenris had never quite managed to master writing. Despite the care with which he formed each letter, his penmanship was a nearly illegible scrawl. Still, once the ink was dry, he folded up the letter, then rang the bell for a servant. Once he’d handed it with his instructions to the young man who appeared, he returned to his silent brooding.

Several hours later, there was a knock on the door.

Fenris let the Inquisitor in. “You wanted to see me, Fenris?” he asked.

As Fenris sank down on the edge of the bed, Striker took a seat on one of the chairs at the table. “Yes,” Fenris said. “I’d like to officially request to go with you to Crestwood.”

Striker laced his fingers together. Across his face, several different expressions manifested as he considered Fenris’ request. “But Hawke will be there,” he finally said.

Fenris’ own hands gripped the edge of the bed. “I know,” he said. Then admitted, “I just think that it would be better to confront him somewhere other than here.”

Striker was thoughtful. Fenris expected that the Inquisitor would question his intentions, but he did not. Instead, he said only, “There will be a group of us going – so you won’t be alone with him.”

He’d said it without inflection, so Fenris wasn’t sure if Striker had meant it to reassure or to discourage him. Still, the answer was not a refusal.

“Perhaps,” Fenris said slowly, “that is for the best.”

Striker dipped his head – an acknowledgment. Gave Fenris a long, lingering look. Then he unlaced his fingers and stood. “If that is all you wanted – I’ll go.”

Fenris didn’t stop him as he turned from the table and headed for the door.

Him – Mahanon Lavellan. Prize hunter of his clan. Leader of the Inquisition. The man whose bed Fenris had warmed last night.

The man whose touch of comfort Fenris had rejected this morning.

Fenris wondered why he was paralyzed by uncertainty. Why he didn’t stop Striker from leaving. Angry at himself, at his sides, his hands clenched into fists.

_Vishante kaffas! Why am I so bad at this?_

Striker’s hand was on the latch of the door when Fenris spoke. “Striker, I am not... ungrateful.”

The Inquisitor turned. A question in his gaze.

Fenris lifted a hand. Pushed his hair back from his face, serious and pale as a ghost. “I just... I would not be very good company tonight.”

Striker’s expression softened, washed over with relief. “I don’t mind,” he said softly. “We don’t have to do anything... we don’t even have to talk.”

Fenris considered that. No, he didn’t want to drag this man down into the mire of bitter self-loathing and rage that consumed him. “Your offer is kind, but I’d rather be alone.”

Striker nodded again. Then he released the door latch. Walked across the room. Fenris looked up as Striker leaned down over him. Then closed his eyes as Striker pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.

In that kiss, there was forgiveness.

Compassion.

Affection.

Striker straightened, the filtered light fingers through Fenris’ hair. “If you change your mind, Fen... well, you do know where to find me.”

Fenris opened his eyes as the hand withdrew. Found himself staring into Striker’s warm, hazel eyes, as a gentle smile tugged at the corners of his full lips.

Fenris exhaled slowly. “I still do not understand why you are so kind to me.”

At that, Striker quirked an eyebrow. Then he smiled again as he turned to cross the room. At the door he stopped, still smiling, to add, “Well, if you do figure it out, let me know.”

***

The sun was already dipping towards the horizon when they arrived in Crestwood.

As Fenris, Bull and Dorian stretched their legs, Varric and the Inquisitor bowed heads together by the side of the road as they consulted the map.

Varric’s fingers traced the path. “So we’re here,” he said, pointing to a place on the edge. “Hawke will be waiting for us at the cave, way over here.”

Lavellan tried to do a quick calculation of their travel time. “We’re in for a long ride,” he said. “Better if we get going now.”

The Inquisitor gave the order. In moments, they were back in the saddle, following the road, as the sun continued to sink down in the sky.

As they plodded along, he glanced at Fenris. Since they’d left Skyhold, Lavellan had been surreptitiously watching Fenris every now and then. Questioning his decision to bring the warrior, especially given the dagger looks he and Dorian had been exchanging since the moment they’d all gathered at the stables on the morning of their departure.

Fortunately Fenris seemed to get along quite well with Bull. And both Bull and Varric had managed to serve as a wall between the elf and the mage, so they hadn’t tried to kill each other. Yet.

They were nearly at their destination when Lavellan glanced at Fenris again. He really didn’t know what to make of Fenris sometimes. He’d never met anyone so mired in anger and hate. And yet, Lavellan loved him. Wanted to keep him close, even though he knew that getting too close to an injured wolf was dangerous.

A voice broke him out of his thoughts. “Well,” Varric announced. “That must be the place.”

They’d come up around a bend. Ahead of them, the dark mouth of a cave where, as they dismounted their steeds, Garrett Hawke emerged from the shadows.

Lavellan had been on edge since their run-in with a group of Grey Wardens on the road, looking for one of their own – most likely the very man they’d come to meet. More so now, knowing and dreading the confrontation that was about to take place.

As the Inquisitor approached, Hawke’s eyes remained fixed high above his shoulder at a point behind him. At Fenris.

_He looks like a man who’s been poisoned._

“Hawke.”

Almost reluctantly, Hawke’s gaze fell upon him. “Inquisitor, I’m glad you made it. My contact in the Wardens should be in the back of this cave. You go ahead – it should be safe. I’ll guard your back.”

Lavellan raised his voice – a command to the others. “Let’s go.”

As the others followed behind the Inquisitor, Hawke fell back until he was at Fenris’ side.

Green eyes stabbed at him.

“Fenris,” Hawke said in a low voice. “We need to talk.”

Fenris hissed back at him. “Not now.”

“You’ve been avoiding me for the past two days at Skyhold. If not now, when?”

Fenris came to a sudden stop. Whirling, he glared up into Hawke’s face. “You have nothing to say that I want to hear.”

Hawke was frozen for a moment as Fenris turned and began walking again. Then, with a few quick strides of his long legs, he caught up to the elf again. “Fenris, I only wanted to end your pain before it –”

Fenris cut him off with a fierce growl. “I know what your intentions were. Striker –” Fenris paused, correcting himself. “The Inquisitor told me everything.”

_Striker..._ That name sounded so...  _familiar_ coming off Fenris’ lips. A pet name? Everyone else – including Varric – always referred to the man as ‘Inquisitor.’ Or – higher up the pedestal – as ‘Your Worship.’ 

_My clan found him. We nursed him back to health. He stayed for a while._

A while? What the fuck was ‘a while’?

Hawke’s voice was a thunderous clap, harsh and hard.  _“Fenris.”_

Heads of the Inquisition turned.

Fenris stopped again. Turned, this time seething with rage. “Whether I lived or died – that was my choice! And you had no right to take it away from me!”

Hawke’s expression changed. As if his face were a shattered mirror, about to fall to pieces. A man disheartened, broken. When he finally spoke again, his voice was barely more than a scratchy whisper. “You’re right.”

Fenris’ gaze continued to burn into him. Then he hissed again. “We’re done talking.”

Fenris had definitively closed the lines of communication. And when that happened, Hawke knew better than to chase after him.

Then, from up ahead, there was a shout. The demanding snap of the Inquisitor’s voice. “Hawke!”

Hawke dashed forward. Right past the others into the back of the cave. Where he found the Inquisitor, hands twitching as he stared down the sword of the Grey Warden aimed at his throat.

“It’s just us,” Hawke said quickly. “I brought the Inquisitor.”

Lavellan shifted, chin up, eyes narrowed. Waiting.

The man lowered his sword. Let his gaze sweep over the others as they entered the room. “I’m Alistair,” he said. “It’s an honor to meet all of you. I wish it were somewhere nicer.”

***

Later that night, the Inquisitor sat with Dorian next to the campfire, while the otherwise quiet night was punctuated by the intermittent steely strikes of swords as Bull and Fenris sparred in a glade not too far off in the distance.

After concluding their meeting with the Grey Warden, Hawke had taken his leave, announcing that he’d meet the Inquisitor back at Skyhold. Gaze returning repeatedly to Fenris as if drawn by some sort of magical fairy tale spell. Fenris refusing to meet it. The Inquisitor had thanked him for his help, then watched as he rode off with Varric, who had offered to accompany him.

After that, the hour late, they’d been forced to spend the night at one of the Inquisition camps. Immediately after they’d eaten, Bull had invited Fenris to fight him. Fenris had readily agreed.

 _Bull knows what he needs,_ Striker thought. _But I don’t. I don’t know what anyone needs. Not even myself._

There was a stretch of woods nearby. He realized how long it had been since he’d had the opportunity to hunt. He’d never gone this long without it before and he missed it. Briefly he considered it. But the Dalish usually hunted in pairs – safety in numbers. Also, the forests of Crestwood didn’t _feel_ so safe, and, although he could have ordered his companion to join him, Dorian didn’t strike him as the outdoorsy type.

He and Dorian had been relaxing silently by the crackling fire, but after a particularly loud clang rang out, he turned his attention to the Inquisitor. “I suppose it would be too much to hope for that they bash each others’ skulls in?” he proposed in that usual slightly mocking tone of his. “Then, at least, we could have some peace and quiet.”

Lavellan smiled with wry amusement. “You really don’t like Fenris, do you, Dorian?”

Dorian waved his hand with a little flair. “Other than his lacking a sense of humor and threatening my life every now and then, he seems perfectly agreeable.”

Lavellan continued to give him that same smile. “Oh?” he said. “Then why do you keep staring at him?”

Dorian’s expression shifted. A bit chagrined? No, Dorian was studying him very carefully, weighing his next words.

“Well,” Dorian said, rather seriously, “I’m fascinated by his markings. I know what Magister Danarius was trying to do. I’m not sure where he found the pattern. But I’m certain that it _means_ something.” Dorian paused, cocking his head. “I’ve noticed that they look very much like yours.” He paused again, indicating his throat. “Here.”

“So you think Fenris’ markings are _elvhen,”_ Lavellan said, though – given that similarity – he’d wondered the same thing himself.

“Ancient, at least.” Dorian smiled. “That’s the problem with history though – people are crushed, cultures lost, and little details such as gods are erased.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Lavellan said, wry again. “But, to be honest, I don’t know what Fenris’ markings mean. Or where they came from.”

Dorian hummed thoughtfully as the topic dead-ended. Then he smiled smugly. “You know, since we’re alone, now would be the perfect time to share a little gossip.”

“Gossip?” The Inquisitor regarded him curiously. “What kind of gossip?”

“Well, I heard that you nursed him back to health,” Dorian said, then his smile turned even more sly. “Was that all?”

Nonchalant, Lavellan just shrugged. “Pretty much.”

Dorian tutted – a pretense of disapproval. “Don’t be vague, Inquisitor.”

The Inquisitor glanced out at the night, thoughtful. Then he turned back to the mage. “He’s... a very good kisser.”

That caught Dorian off guard for a moment. _Well, well, well. The Inquisitor likes men?_ How unfortunate that he hadn’t figured this out sooner. After all, Lavellan was rather... _fetching._ “Well, in that case, Inquisitor, I may have to be envious.”

“Oh?” Lavellan asked, regarding him curiously again. “I wouldn’t have thought Fenris your type.”

Dorian smiled at him. Coyly. “Who said I was talking about Fenris?”

It didn’t bother the Inquisitor that Dorian was a mage. The Dalish viewed magic as a tool – something to be respected. But Dorian was still a _shem._ One whose family – as Fenris had pointed out three times already – owned elven slaves.

Still, Lavellan wasn’t quite accustomed to having men of any race look at him like that. Or speak to him with that sort of seductive huskiness in their voice. Despite himself, he flustered. “Ah... are you... are you flirting with me, Dorian?”

Dorian’s gaze did an appreciative sweep over the Inquisitor. “Maybe just a little,” he admitted, with that same little husk in his voice. “It does help pass the time. But if you prefer, I could stop.”

Before Lavellan could respond, there was a loud rustle to the left, and then Fenris and Bull, both flushed from their exertions, burst into the camp. “Nothing like working out the kinks after a long day in the saddle,” Bull boomed.

Dorian snorted. “From what I’ve heard, kinks are something you possess in spades.”

Bull grinned as he crouched down to reach for his pack. “Hey, ‘Vint. You got some kinks of your own you wanna share, my tent is over there.”

Dorian made a choked little laugh. “You beast.”

Continuing to grin, Bull pulled a bottle out of his pack. “You like it,” he said with a leer. “Hey, Boss. Drinks are on me.”

Lavellan wasn’t a heavy drinker, but politely accepted a cup. Then nursed it for the rest of the evening as Bull and Fenris tossed back drinks and shared battle stories, mostly involving some mysterious people in Seheron known as the Fog Warriors. Although Bull told most of the stories, Lavellan found himself hanging on every word that Fenris spoke.

As for Dorian, he was uncharacteristically quiet, though it didn’t escape the Inquisitor’s notice that Dorian wasn’t exactly drinking steadily. After a little while, he realized that Dorian was playing a little drinking game with himself, only slugging back a shot whenever someone spoke the phrase ‘killing ‘Vints.’

After a couple of hours, Dorian wished everyone a good night and teetered precariously towards his tent. He only stumbled once.

Once Dorian had slipped into his tent, the Inquisitor looked at the others. “We’re heading out early,” he said. “We should probably all get some rest.”

***

At the Inquisitor’s suggestion, they’d all retired for the night, each man to his own tent.

There was enough ambient light penetrating the canvas flaps that Lavellan could still see well enough in the dim. Efficiently he set up the bedroll, smoothed out the blankets, and then undressed down to the skin before slipping under them.

Hands beneath his head, he stared up at the ceiling, thinking about Fenris.

_You’ve done the impossible,_ Varric had told him during a quiet moment on the road.  _You not only somehow got him to trust you, but he let you get close._

Striker exhaled deeply. He didn’t feel close to Fenris. Or at least not all the time. He didn’t know how he felt about the way Fenris treated him – a steady cycle of pulling him close, then pushing him away – other than frustrated. Except that – whatever this was, even if it were one-sided – he didn’t want to end it.

While Striker lay thinking, the flap of his tent opened and Fenris ducked in.

Curious, Striker leaned up on his elbows, watching as Fenris smoothed down the tent flap before he crawled over.

Suddenly Fenris was crouching over him. He could feel Fenris’ weight as it settled on his hips. Then Fenris’ hand curled about the nape of his neck, jerking him upwards into a kiss.

Teeth clacked as Fenris’ mouth crashed into his. Crush of lips. Thrust of tongue. Nip of teeth.

Striker’s hands flailed as he was pulled up off the bedroll. Seeking, they fell blindly upon the man above him, clutching at his shoulders.

Fenris hissed as Striker’s fingers inadvertently dug into the sensitive markings beneath his tunic. Flinched back, pain and anger flashing in his eyes.

Striker’s eyes widened as he realized what had just happened. He quickly eased up on his grip. “Sorry, I –”

Fenris didn’t let him complete his apology. Instead, with a growl, Fenris pushed him back down to the ground with one hand, as the other took hold of the edge of the blanket, yanking it down.

Cool air washed over Striker’s naked body. Then sudden weight as Fenris covered Striker’s body with his own, claiming his mouth again. Striker could taste the liquor still lingering on Fenris’ lips.

It was too fast. Too  _rough._ Fenris was pinning him down, crushing with his weight so that Striker could scarcely breathe. Panicked, his hands flew up, trying to get between them, trying to push Fenris away.

Then Fenris snatched at his hands. Forced them down to bedroll at either side of his head. Striker made a wheezy noise in his throat as teeth sank hard into the vulnerable skin of his throat, and Fenris’ fingers twisted more tightly, bruising, around his wrists.

The little spike of panic was larger now, threatening to suffocate him, making his heart skitter like a rabbit in a trap. Still, somehow, his voice was surprisingly steady, if not a little breathless. “Fenris,” he said. “You’re  _hurting_ me.”

For a second Fenris froze. Then, in a flash. he withdrew. Clambered off the Inquisitor and scrambled away, scooting until his back hit one of the tent poles behind him. His expression dark. Riddled with guilt. “I...” Fenris began, then sighed. “Forgive me. I don’t know what I was thinking.” For a moment, he stared down at his hands, mouth grim. When he spoke again, his voice was strained, thin with pain. “I should go.”

Striker sat up. Spoke quickly before Fenris, who was reaching for the tent flap, could slip away. “Don’t go.”

The hand, with its lyrium markings that almost seemed to glow softly in the dark, stilled. Green eyes shifted questioningly to him.

Striker thought. Thought about need. Thought about sex. In truth, he wasn’t very experienced in bedroom matters, but as a Dalish hunter, and now, as the leader of the Inquisition – embroiled in politics and head of an army – he understood perfectly the subtleties of the dynamics between  _men._ And, after hearing enough stories of Bull’s conquests, he understood how those dynamics could translate in-between the sheets.

Striker pursed his lips. “Fen. If you feel a need to be in control, then... I’ll let you do anything you want with me.”

Surprise altered Fenris’ features. Then, grim again, he glanced away. Thinking. After a moment, he turned back. “You mean you’d... What? Submit to me? Like a  _slave?”_

The last word had come out as a low hiss. But Striker ignored it. “Unless you want me to resist, yes.”

Fenris stared at him for a long time with a hint of disbelief. “This is... strange.”

Striker drew up his legs. Wrapped his arms around his knees. “Bull told me about watchwords. If I really want you to stop, I’ll say the words...” Striker paused, considering. “...Tevinter mage.”

Fenris snorted softly. Then his eyes narrowed. “I can’t believe you’d want this.”

_It’s just sex. A bedroom game. A distraction._ “Fen, do you know what it’s like – to bear the sort of responsibility that comes with being the Inquisitor? Everyone expects me to make decisions about everything. Decisions that affect people’s  _lives,”_ he said. “Is it that surprising that, just for once, I’d like to relinquish control?”

Fenris worried his lip with his teeth. Thinking again. He spoke reluctantly. “If you are... certain...that you want this...”

Striker fixed him in a plain stare. “I am.”

“Anything...?”

His response was resolute. “Yes.”

Fenris turned. Crawled back over to the Inquisitor. Hands on Striker’s knees, spreading them open before he pushed the Inquisitor back down among the blankets with a growl.

***

Fenris stood in the camp, alone, sipping hot tea as he looked out at the early morning misty landscape.

He felt strangely at peace. As though he had gotten something – some lingering anger, some ancient hurt – out of his system. Soothed, somehow, as though the Inquisitor had been a balm that cooled an old, twisting wound which had refused to heal.

As the mist settled more closely to the ground, Fenris mused as he brushed his hair back from his face. Dominating the Inquisitor – he was rather surprised how much he’d liked it. Not only that, he was surprised how much the  _Inquisitor_ had liked it. Who hadn’t used the watchword, not even when Fenris had savagely pinned him down – hips up, wrists caught behind his back, face shoved into the ground – and had taken him. 

He’d left Striker curled in sleep, all warm breath and warm skin among the tangled blankets. The empty camp told him that the others were still sleeping off the effects of last night’s drinking.

The next one up was Bull. The Qunari stretched once, then made his way to the campfire where he picked up the kettle, pouring his own cup of tea. Stepping up to Fenris’ side, he silently regarded the mist as it dissipated away from the thicket of gray-barked trees.

“So,” he rumbled after a few minutes. “I had no idea that you and the Inquisitor were getting down.”

Fenris flicked him a sidelong glance. “It’s none of your business, Qunari.”

Bull cocked his head. “Normally I wouldn’t argue with you, elf. But I was in the tent next to yours, and whatever you were doing to the Inquisitor last night made him very... vocal.”

Fenris cocked an eyebrow at Bull’s salacious grin. Then he snorted. “I’m not giving you any details.”

“Damn, elf.” Bull laughed softly. “You’re no fun.”

 


	7. Hawke, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fenris has to make a choice.

Fenris found the Inquisitor in Cullen’s office, both men bent over a map unrolled across the Commander’s desk.

“– sure your men are ready?” Lavellan was asking.

“As ready as they can be,” Cullen said. His eyes snapped up as Fenris approached, then he gave the elf a quick nod of acknowledgment. “Fenris has given the orders. Tomorrow we head out to Adamant.”

The Inquisitor pressed a hand to his lips, deep in thought as he looked down at the schematics of the fortress. He and Cullen had discussed the plan of attack five times already, not including the Commander’s presentation to the other advisers in the War Room. There truly was nothing more that needed to be said. Still, focusing on the attack kept his thoughts from lingering on the letter that had arrived yesterday morning from the Lavellan clan’s Keeper, asking him for help.

_Bandits are attacking Clan Lavellan. The raiders are well armed and heavily armored, and they come in numbers our hunters cannot match._

Josephine had advised him to enlist the aid of the Duke of Wycome. Except, regardless of the Duke being an ally of the Inquisition, he was still a _shem_ and the Inquisitor had no reason to trust him. They needed Cullen’s troops for Adamant, so the Inquisitor had left the matter in Leliana’s hands. More than anything, Striker wanted to run straight back to his clan. To protect them. But the matter of Adamant was too pressing, so he had no other choice. He could only pray to the Creators that his spymaster’s skirmishers would keep his people safe.

Fenris voice was a low rumble, drawing him from his troubled thoughts. “Striker. I will fight at your side.”

Striker looked up at him. Not entirely able of swallowing the smile that slipped across his lips. “I would have you in no other place.”

Cullen cleared his throat.

Two pairs of elven eyes flicked over to him. Then dismissed him.

Fenris brushed a lock of hair back from his eyes. “Have you eaten?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Striker said. “I still have a lot of work to do. But you should try to get some rest.”

Fenris nodded. Once to the Inquisitor, once to the Commander, before he turned to leave. Except before he was even halfway to the door, he stopped and turned. Striker watched with curious interest as Fenris strode back over to him. Then his eyes lit up as Fenris placed a hand at the back of his head, fingers curving gently against the nape of his neck, and pulled him in for a soft, lingering kiss.

Striker, breathless and wide-eyed, stared at Fenris as he withdrew. Green eyes warm, as a smile tugged at the corners of Fenris’ lips. Then, without a word, Fenris turned again and swept out of Cullen’s office.

“Umm. Yes. So,” Cullen murmured as he rubbed at the back of his neck. “I do believe we’re done here, Inquisitor.”

***

Fenris swept through the corridors of Skyhold.

He’d been here several weeks. Long enough that he found his way about easily without getting lost. He knew which routes to avoid, ones that would take him through the library. He knew when he would find Bull or Varric in the tavern. Long enough that Josephine had finally found him a much smaller, much less opulent room, not too far from the Inquisitor’s quarters. Not that he minded. He’d had enough of luxury while living as Danarius’ bodyguard and pet in the Gilded Quarter of Minrathous. Small and simple suited him.

Other than the Inquisitor, no one ever came to his room. So it was quite a shock when he stepped in and found that he had a visitor.

And it was even more of a shock when he realized that it was Garrett Hawke.

Hawke was sitting on the edge of Fenris’ bed. Fenris froze as Hawke stood up, taking a few steps toward him.

Anger uncurled within him, billowing like smoke. In an instant, Fenris was all wolf, snarling. “Hawke. What are you doing here?”

Hawke stopped. He was a big man, both broad and tall, even more so in the armor he still wore. He seemed to nearly fill Fenris’ room. His gaze, as it bored into Fenris, was cool and unapologetic. “Is it true?”

Hands clenching, Fenris snapped. “Is what true?”

Hawke’s voice dropped, darker, colder, rough. “That you’re sleeping with the Inquisitor.”

Fenris snorted. “And what if I am?”

Suddenly Hawke advanced. Fenris was forced back until he was up against the door. He flinched as Hawke slammed his hands against the door at either side of Fenris’ head. Flames of jealousy raged in his eyes as he stared down at the elf.

Fenris glared fiercely back.

On one level, Hawke felt betrayed. When pressed, Varric had finally confessed that he’d heard _rumors_ about Fenris’ involvement with the Inquisitor. Hawke had been friends with the dwarf for a decade, and knew when he was holding back information. Which meant that yes, Fenris was sharing a bed with another man.

On another level, Hawke took it as a sign of Fenris’ feelings for him that the elf wasn’t already lyrium-fist deep in his chest, especially given how Hawke had just come at him. Aggressive. Angry. Threatening.

Hawke exhaled sharply. Spoke as quietly and calmly as he could. “Tell me you don’t love me anymore, Fenris, and I’ll leave you alone.”

Conflicting emotions battled for dominance on Fenris’ face. “I...” he began, stuttering to a stop. He’d meant to say it. That he didn’t love Hawke anymore. But he couldn’t.

Hawke saw his conflict. Seized upon it. Grabbed Fenris by the arms. Leaned down to capture his mouth in a kiss. Pressed forward so hard that Fenris’ body thumped against the door.

Fenris froze. _This._ The familiarity of Hawke’s lips upon his. He’d forgotten it.

_How?_

It was a kiss full of need. Desperate. With all the Champion’s love poured into it.

_That_ wasn’t  _fair._ Not fair of Hawke to make him feel this way. With a growl, Fenris raised his hands to Hawke’s chest. Pushed the man back.

Hawke withdrew his hands. Watched as Fenris pressed the back of his own hand to his mouth as if he were trying to protect himself from another attack, or if he were about to wipe the taste of Hawke from his lips.

Maker, didn’t Fenris know there was nothing Hawke wouldn’t do for him? How much he loved him? He barked a soft, bitter laugh. “If it were anyone other than the Inquisitor, I’d just kill them.”

Fenris lowered his hand. Eyes narrowed. His voice a dark growl. “Killing things is your solution to everything, isn’t it?”

Hawke became still. Pain etched across his features. “You have no idea what it was like, watching the Blight take you!” Hawke said, voice crackling with raw emotion. “Watching the man you love slowly dying. Being completely helpless to stop it. If I... if I could have traded places with you, Fenris, I would have done it. In a heartbeat.”

Confronting all that emotion – it was too much. It made his head dizzy. It made his heart hurt. Breath stuck in his throat, Fenris dropped his gaze to the floor.

Silence, but for the sound of Hawke’s steady breath.

Then Hawke heaved a heavy sigh. “Fenris...” he said softly. “Do you love him?”

Fenris continued to stare at the floor. “I... respect him. And... admire him.”

Hawke understood what that meant – that, yes, Fenris did love the Inquisitor, in some fashion, at least – and he felt his heart sink.

Then Fenris felt Hawke’s hand under his chin, forcing him to look up. In those familiar honey brown eyes, there was both sadness and resignation. “After Adamant, I will leave,” Hawke said. “I won’t come back.”

Letting go of Fenris, he reached for the door latch. Waited for Fenris to slide out of the way before he opened the door. Then, at the threshold, he paused, speaking over his shoulder. “Either you stay with your beloved Inquisitor, or you come with me. The choice is yours, Fenris.”

***

_Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you._

He’d said those words to Hawke once. He remembered that moment clearly – Hawke sitting across from him, illuminated by a handful of candles scattered about the room in the mansion of High Town, talking about freedom. He’d had nothing – not even an enemy now that Danarius was dead.

But then – Hawke had forgiven him for running away. For rejecting him. And they had been together ever since. At least until he’d contracted the Blight.

After Hawke left, he’d brooded in his room. Then, restless, he’d walked the battlements, in a desperate hope that the cool mountain air would somehow numb him. Instead, he felt the fire of Hawke’s words burning inside his heart.

_If I could have traded places with you, Fenris, I would have done it. In a heartbeat._

“Fool,” Fenris growled as he continued to prowl among Skyhold’s empty stone. Whether he meant it to be directed at Hawke or himself, he didn’t know.

_Either you stay with your beloved Inquisitor, or you come with me._

Fenris knew he had to make a choice. He didn’t know what he wanted, and he’d never been particularly good at making choices. It was a luxury he’d lacked for most much of his life, even after he was no longer a slave. For the longest time after his escape, making decisions had been difficult. Where he should go, what he should do, even what to have for breakfast. For the longest time, on the run, his freedom hadn’t even felt _real._ As if it were only a dream, and that he would wake up and find himself back in Minrathous with Danarius holding one end of his chain.

And this choice – it was more difficult than most. True, he hadn’t killed Hawke, but he hadn’t really forgiven him either. And the Inquisitor...

The Inquisitor was beautiful.

The Inquisitor was a good man. Clever and proud. Considerate, both in and out of bed, and so very kind to Fenris. Because he...

_Oh._

How strange it had taken him this long to figure out why.

From the lonely battlements, Fenris tugged his cloak a little tighter about himself. Stared solemnly up at one of the moons for a very long time as his thoughts swirled around like leaves in a whirlwind, considering his choices.

Decision made, he pushed off from the cold stone where he’d been resting his hands and made his way back inside.

The familiar path brought him through the Great Hall, past the door, and up the stairs into the Inquisitor’s quarters.

The room was dark but for the moonlight coming in from the doors of the balcony. His tread quiet, Fenris made his way over to the lumpen shape of a body beneath the sheets. Sank down on the edge of the bed and looked down upon the Inquisitor’s sleeping face.

When Fenris’ fingers began to trail across his skin, following the _vallaslin_ , Striker woke, eyes heavy-lidded as he gazed upon his uninvited guest. “Fenris,” he murmured, shifting in the bed.

Fenris continued to trace his tattoos. His touch gentle. Up along the side of his face, across his forehead, down the other side. Then from his lip down his chin, fingers grazing over his throat. The markings of June, the creator god who’d given the Dalish the knife and bow.

Striker regarded his lover, curious but silent, as the other elf tenderly traced out every line of the _vallaslin._

Striker knew it was late – it had been late when he’d finished with his preparations for tomorrow, and finally stumbled into bed. Still, the intrusion was far from unwelcome.

As Fenris withdrew his hand, Striker sat up. “Fenris, I...” he began, then swallowed the words he’d been about to say. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Green eyes sank into his. “As am I.”

When the hunter smiled, his face became even more beautiful.

“Striker,” Fenris rumbled. “I know why you’re so kind to me.”

At those words, Striker’s eyes widened. Then he averted his gaze, hands suddenly plucking at invisible threads in the blanket as he flustered. Eventually, shyly, he lifted his gaze. “And... do you feel the same?”

A hint of a smile twitched across Fenris’ lips. Then he lifted a hand to Striker’s face, letting his fingers wander into the Inquisitor’s hair as he leaned close to press a soft kiss upon his lips.

One kiss turned into another. Then another. Then Striker was sighing into Fenris’ mouth as Fenris’ arms encircled him, holding him close. Then he was sighing again as Fenris shifted in the bed, rolling Striker beneath him gently, as though he were a precious, fragile thing.

Striker’s hazel eyes were almost gray in the dim light as he watched Fenris lean back to unbutton his tunic. Then Striker reached out to aid in the task, hands skimming carefully over Fenris’ sensitive skin as he pushed the fabric from Fenris’ shoulders.

Fenris leaned down, kissing the Inquisitor again. Fenris had made up his mind. _This is for him._ He knew he couldn’t say it, but this night he would _show_ Striker how he felt. It was in the soft press of his mouth against all the hollows and bones of Striker’s body. In the way his fingers sifted through Striker’s hair, and danced across his skin. It was in the slow tease as he stripped off the rest of his clothes, and the tease of tongue between the Inquisitor’s thighs that elicited soft little gasps of pleasure colored by sound from Striker’s throat. It was in the offer to give or receive, then in the careful preparations before their bodies became one.

Limbs entwined, the Inquisitor lay beneath him, making sweet little sounds of pleasure as Fenris surged within him. “Oh, Fenris,” he sighed, lilting voice all breath as he rolled his hips up to meet his lover’s, arms clinging around Fenris’ neck. _“Ma sa’lath, ma vhenan_...”

Fenris responded by bending his head. Captured Striker’s lips again in a deep, sensual kiss, holding nothing back, their bodies moving like the tide, ebbing and flowing until they were both swept away, cries thrown recklessly out in the light of the moons.

After, the Inquisitor lay curled up in Fenris’ arms, his head on Fenris’ chest, lulled to sleep by the strong beat of the warrior’s heart.

Fenris wasn’t Dalish. But in his travels he’d picked up bits from many languages, including elven, so he’d recognized the words that had spilled so passionately from the Inquisitor’s lips.

_Ma sa’lath, ma vhenan._

My one true love, my heart.

 


	8. Hawke, Part III

Cullen’s forces had poured into the fortress, paving the way for the Inquisitor and his comrades.

Everything had been going so well. There had been a minimum of casualties. They’d stopped the ritual and brought the Gray Wardens over to their side. In a perfect world, it would have ended there, with the Inquisition’s victory.

But the world wasn’t perfect.

Following Warden-Commander Clarel, the Inquisitor chased after their enemy – the magister from Tevinter who had started it all. As a hunter, Lavellan knew all about the chase. Eyes on target, then – when the moment is right – _strike._

Fixated on his target, he didn’t even glance behind him to see if he’d been followed. He didn’t know who was at his side. Not until the battlements shook and collapsed below their feet, and they were hurtling down towards the rocky ground. He was not the only one falling, bodies glimpsed as they plummeted through the air.

He had to save them.

He didn’t think. Instead he stretched out a hand, biting back a cry as the Anchor flared painfully to life, and opened a rift in the sky.

Lavellan landed on his back, hard enough to knock his breath out. For a moment he just lay there until a hand reached out, locking onto his, and pulled him up. Catching his breath, he looked up into the pale face of the Warden.

“Inquisitor,” Alistair said with concern. “Are you all right?”

“I’m... fine.” Letting go of the Warden’s hand, the Inquisitor looked around. Other than Alistair and himself, Bull, Varric, Solas and Hawke were here.

Wherever _here_ was.

All of them looked equally shaken. Except for Solas, who considered their surroundings with a placid expression on his face. “Solas...?” the Inquisitor ventured. “Do you know where we are?”

“Yes,” Solas said. “We’re in the Fade.”

***

_At least Fenris is safe._

Lavellan held onto that optimistic hope as they made their way through the Fade.

He didn’t like the Fade. There wasn’t much about it to like. The air didn’t smell quite right. The light seemed muted, unnatural, coming from an indiscernible point far above. They’d been set upon by fearlings that – to him and the Champion, at least – resembled giant spiders. The very monsters that had killed his father, and the thing he hated and feared more than anything else in the world. And there was a strange throbbing pain in his skull – an aftereffect of the memories he’d lost being forced back in.

He liked the Fade even less when the Nightmare began taunting them. Each man in turn. Alistair, then Bull, then Varric.

“Just keep talking, Smiley,” Varric muttered.

The Nightmare laughed. A cold, terrible thing that slithered up Lavellan’s spine.

And then Lavellan’s hair stood on end when the Nightmare spoke elvhen.

_“Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din.”_

The Inquisitor whirled to Solas. Eyes wide. _“Harellan?”_

 _“Banal nadas,”_ Solas snapped at the Nightmare. Then his shrewd gaze fell upon the Inquisitor. “This demon seeks to unsettle us, Inquisitor. You should not heed anything it says.”

The Inquisitor blinked. _Harellan_ – it was a word that meant either traitor or trickster. But it was only ever used to describe one of the gods in the elven pantheon – _Fen’harel,_ the Dread Wolf.

_This man is not what he seems._

However, Lavellan didn’t have another moment to ponder the significance of this revelation too deeply, because the Nightmare had already begun speaking again.

“Did you think you mattered, Hawke?” the Nightmare purred darkly. “Did you think anything you ever did mattered? You couldn’t even save your city. You lost Fenris, just like your family, and everyone else you ever cared about.”

A muscle in Hawke’s jaw twitched, as something dark crossed over his face. Eyes flashed with jealous fire as he turned to the Inquisitor. A moment clicked by, and then Hawke came at him.

Lavellan wasn’t really surprised. Since they’d found themselves in the Fade, emotions had been running high. Tempers flaring. Trying to hide their fear. Only Solas had remained a rock of impenetrable calm.

“You bastard,” Hawke growled.

Suddenly the lapels of the long coat Lavellan wore over his armor were caught up in Hawke’s fists. He didn’t reach for his knives – instead he scuffled with the warrior, trying to break free. Except his strength was no match for Hawke’s.

His feet skidded out from below him as Hawke shoved him. Hard. They went down, the Champion practically on top of him.

Pain exploded from several places at once. His backside had taken the brunt of the impact with the ground, though his head had bounced once against the stone. And as they crashed, Hawke’s knee drove straight into his thigh, just barely missing his groin. Then, his face took the first punch from Hawke’s fist.

The blow forced his head back. Another hit and his vision started to swim. He was fighting the instinct to flick the knife out from his sleeve and bury it in the Champion’s ribs when the attack suddenly stopped.

It took the Inquisitor a moment to realize that the others had intervened. That Bull was now physically holding Hawke back in an arm lock, Alistair in-between Hawke and himself, and that Solas was crouching down by his side, helping him to sit up.

Varric stood to the side, Bianca at the ready. “Shit, Hawke,” he muttered. “What in the Void has gotten into you? You can’t just... shit.”

Solas’ voice was cool and calm, hovering near his ear. “Are you injured, Inquisitor?”

Lavellan reached up to gingerly touch his face. He could taste blood in his mouth. His spittle bright red as he spat it upon the ground. Maker, he hurt all over, but the only thing that had really been injured was his pride. “I’ll be fine,” he mumbled, then allowed the other elf to help him to his feet.

Bull tilted his head to peer into Hawke’s face. “You feeling calmer now, big guy?” he said, his voice low and full of menace. “Cause I’ll let you go. But if you try any of that shit again, I’ll rip your arms off.”

Hawke grunted. Then rubbed at his arm after Bull released him.

The Inquisitor and Hawke glared sullenly at each other for a moment.

Alistair cleared his throat. “I doubt we’re very far from the rift. The others must be very worried by now. I suggest we move on.”

***

The Nightmare had found them. No, it had been waiting for them. Being able to root around in their minds, the demon had known of their plan even before they had even voiced it aloud to each other. Near the exit, blocking the way, the Nightmare rose.

Lavellan nearly pissed himself. A hardened hunter, his nerves were steel, but seeing the demon shaped like a gigantic spider, brought him to the brink of losing control of both his nerves and his bodily functions.

The battle was fierce, steel flying. Hacking. Slicing. Stabbing. Hawke, Bull and Alistair rained a hundred blows upon the creature, while Varric ducked and dodged, spraying the monster with a volley of bolts from his crossbow, and Solas blasted it with a variety of magical spells.

Lavellan swallowed his fear. Determined, he threw himself at the demon. Nimble, he clambered up the monster’s leg and onto its back, ignoring the shouts from his comrades below. With a battle cry he sank both of his fighting daggers deep into the monster’s back where the head met the body.

The demon’s shriek shook the cavern. As it writhed, Lavellan, perched precariously on its back, lost his footing. Hands tightening around the hilts of his daggers, he held on for dear life as the warriors on the ground rushed the beast in a opportune attack.

Out of breath, sick to his stomach, and spattered with ichor, the Inquisitor climbed shakily off the corpse. Tucked away his blades as his eyes scanned the others. As far as he could tell, any wounds his companions had taken were superficial. “Let’s get out of here.”

No one argued.

They hurried on. The terrain grew steeper and rockier as they made their way towards the sickly green light of the rift in the distance. As they progressed up the path, Bull led the way, his longer legs advancing him. Behind him, Varric and Solas – unhindered by armor – kept a brisk pace. Only the armored fighters – Alistair, Hawke and the Inquisitor – lagged behind until the gap in the party was quite large.

Bull, Solas and Varric were nearly at the rift when a gut-quivering screech pierced the air.

The Nightmare rose again before the three armored men, effectively blocking their escape from the Fade.

Hands immediately fell to weapons. But lingered there, each man hesitant to draw steel. The six of them had barely managed to defeat this monster. Or, at least, they’d believed it dead. Lavellan tried to swallow down his growing dread. _How are the three of us alone supposed to kill it?_

“How do we get by?” Alistair shouted.

Hawke, hand still hovering near his sword, stared at the demon for a moment, before turning to the others. “Go! I’ll cover you!”

Alistair swung his gaze to Hawke. “No. The Wardens caused this mess. A warden must–”

Hawke snapped at him. “A Warden must help them rebuild. That’s _your_ job.”

Alistair stared at him for a brief moment. Time was slipping away. The Nightmare was coming. “Inquisitor, you must choose,” he demanded. “Who will stay?”

Lavellan stared at Alistair. As Inquisitor, he was forced to make difficult decisions all the time. But _this._.. choosing who would stay in the Fade to distract the Nightmare... it was _murder._

He didn’t know Alistair well. But he seemed like a genuinely good man. With Clarel dead, someone _would_ have to rebuild the Wardens. Despite the Wardens’ mistakes, Lavellan had no intentions of cutting them loose.

He glanced at Hawke. The infamous Champion of Kirkwall. The man who had tried to kill Fenris. The man who had just attacked him less than an hour ago. Lavellan could still feel the blow to his pride as well as taste the metallic tinge of blood in his mouth.

Hawke’s eyes narrowed. “Choose me,” he growled. “You know you want to. Leave me here and you can have Fenris to yourself.”

Alistair’s eyes widened. “Hawke!” he protested. Then, “Don’t listen to him, Inquisitor. He’s just trying to antagonize you to get what he wants.”

Hawke’s expression hardened. “Someone has to stay. And let’s be honest, shall we? This puny knife-ear has wanted to kill me since the moment we met. It was in his eyes.” He stared down at the Inquisitor. “So, here’s your chance. Me or the Warden. _Choose.”_

Grim, Mahanon Lavellan lifted his chin.

He’d never thought that handing down a death sentence would be so easy.

***

In the great hall of the fortress, chaos reigned.

The rift in the center of the hall had been spawning demons for hours. Indefatigable, Fenris battled alongside the Inquisition’s forces. Slaying demons kept him from thinking too deeply about the fact that his friends – Alistair, Bull, and Varric, not to mention both Striker and Hawke – were missing. The fact that the mage from Tevinter had witnessed their fall into what he surmised to be the Fade did nothing to reassure anyone.

Nearby, Cullen continued to bark orders. The wounded were quickly hauled away to a quiet area near the back wall where the healers saved those they could, and soothed those too far gone to save. Below his bare feet, Fenris felt the blood mixed with dust and ash as the soldiers trampled it into sludge. In his arms, shoulder and back he felt the burn of his muscles straining as he continued to press forward into the horde, swinging his sword.

They had nearly driven back the most recent wave when the rift in the center of the hall boomed, green light snapping, making the air crackle.

Fenris cut down the demon before him, then whipped his head around in time to see three figures emerge from the rift: Solas, and – to his relief – Bull and Varric.

Moments ticked by as the three men moved out of the way. Solas and Bull scanned the room, assessing the scene, while Varric kept his eyes on the rift. Then several more moments ticked by, filling Fenris’ heart with dread.

Then Varric asked the question that was on everyone’s lips. “Where are the others?”

Solas’ voice barely carried past the center of the hall. “They were behind us. Give them time.”

Varric grunted. “As if we have any other choice.”

Cullen barked another order. But Fenris, lost in his thoughts, didn’t hear it. He was already moving towards the rift until he was at Varric’s side. Sword gripped tightly in gauntlet, heart in throat.

The rift flared again, temporarily blasting the shadows in the room, and then two figures stepped out.

Striker was the first.

Followed closely by Grey Warden Alistair.

“Where’s Hawke?” Varric shouted.

“He stayed behind to fight the Nightmare,” Alistair shouted back. “Inquisitor! You must close the rift!”

Expression hard as stone, the Inquisitor turned. Raised his hand and let the Anchor roar to life. Magic flowed from the Inquisitor’s palm into the rift.

Fenris froze for a moment. His thoughts were suddenly sticky thick, and it took a moment for him to realize just what was going on.

Hawke was still in the Fade. Alone. With a Nightmare. And the Inquisitor was sealing the rift so that Hawke would have no way out.

The last night at Skyhold, Fenris had made his choice. Decision made, he’d then gone to Striker. To take that second chance.

Except now...

Now he was losing Hawke.

Forever.

_Hawke._

He couldn’t let Hawke die.

Drawing a deep breath, Fenris ran straight towards the rift and threw himself into the Fade.

Focused on the rift, the Inquisitor only caught a blur as Fenris raced past him. But he saw enough – a brief flash of black leather and silver plate, white hair, and tan skin marked by pale lyrium lines.

The Inquisitor screamed, “Fenris – no!”

But it was too late. The elf was gone, with no other trace of his passing than a waver in the light emanating from the rift.

He jerked back his hand. To break the steady stream of energy pouring out of the anchor. But then a hand clamped down on his wrist, forcing his arm up again. Wide-eyed, he whipped his head around to see Solas.

“Inquisitor! You must close the rift!”

Solas’ grip was too tight for Lavellan to pull free. And the magic pouring out of his hand was too strong for him to extinguish by simply willing it. He was caught in a magical loop, unable to stop. Against his will, Solas forced him to close the rift, sealing both Fenris and Hawke inside the Fade.

The air sizzled as the rift pulsated once more before it seemed to fold up into itself and vanish in thin air.

All around, a cheer from the soldiers rose up, a cacophony of noise like the hum of a million bees.

As Solas released him, the Inquisitor choked on a sob in his throat. His legs suddenly weak, he dropped to his knees.

_Creators, please, no. No no no no no._

Pain radiated through his chest, making it impossible to breathe. It was as if his heart had been crushed by the blow from a dwarven hammer. The Inquisitor was barely aware of the buzz of activity around him. All around him, the voices of his companions mixing together, speaking incomprehensible words. He was barely aware of the heavy white coat that settled across his shoulders. Legs shaking as gentle hands coaxed him up off his knees, as a familiar voice rolled softly into his ear.

“Come with me.”

A protective arm curved around his back as he let himself be led swiftly away. Down through the metallic bodies and swords and shields of his army. Through a dim corridor and into a small, dank, empty storeroom that smelled faintly of millet and dry rot.

“Inquisitor?”

Lavellan looked up. Saw the sympathy that dripped from the gray eyes, the lines of worry etched into the bronze face. Lavellan opened his mouth to speak. To say he was fine.

Instead, suddenly, he was sobbing.

There was a moment of uncertainty. Then the mage pulled him close, into his comforting arms, and let the Inquisitor weep uncontrollably against his chest, as his hand gently stroked the Inquisitor’s back and he murmured soothingly into the Inquisitor’s ear.

The same words, over and over.

_There, there. I’ve got you, Inquisitor. I’ve got you._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a bad man.
> 
> Not only do I end it like this, I left several loose threads. What happens to the Lavellan clan? What will the Inquisitor do now that he suspects who Solas really is? What about his broken heart? And - what will happen to Hawke and Fenris in the Fade?
> 
> I'm not sure when I might write it, but there is a sequel planned if enough people are interested.
> 
> Thank you for reading! May Andraste smile kindly upon you.


End file.
